


The Scars We Can't Hide

by make_your_own_world



Series: Supernatural Hunger Games AU [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Death, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Explicit Language, F/M, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Major Character Injury, Prostitution, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Torture, Violence, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26094214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/make_your_own_world/pseuds/make_your_own_world
Summary: Three years after winning the 68th annual Hunger Games, Dean Winchester feels like he's drowning. President Naomi's hold on him solidifies more every day as she loses control of the rebellion he'd accidentally started, even though he does his best to appease her and would like nothing more than to rest. Dean can't help but worry that he's turning into his father, and lingering grief over old losses threaten his resolve. As he spends less and less time at home, Dean realizes that there are more powers at play in Haven than he'd realized. With the number of his allies dwindling by the day, he must put his faith in untrustworthy characters. He never wanted the national spotlight, but it's focused on him now more than ever. He's about to realize that the arena was nothing compared to what Naomi's got in store for him. Will he be able to save his brother without losing himself?Slowburn Destiel. Lots of violence.Information about updates in notes.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Series: Supernatural Hunger Games AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1474334
Comments: 71
Kudos: 47





	1. Bela Talbot

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I don't have any excuses. I am so, so sorry that it took this long to update, and the worst part is the story's not even done. Well, that was a lie. I do have an excuse, and that excuse is this story is going to be longer than the original by a LOT. Already at 16 chapters it's longer than the original by around 8k words, and the original was 22 chapters long, and the chapters are only getting more intense and longer from here.  
> I'm 16/24 chapters through, so at the moment updates will be Mondays, every two weeks (two updates per month) as I write the final 8 chapters. Please, I am begging you all, PLEASE review because it gives me SO MUCH encouragement and I will need it as I start my senior year of high school and a new job.  
> Everyone that has reviewed on the original recently (and when I was still publishing) please know that I am literally only publishing this for you. If it was up to me I'd still be curled up under my blankets, hiding from COVID-19 and adult responsibilities but you guys made that impossible and for that I love/hate you.  
> The ending for this story is pretty much decided, but I'd love to hear what you all think I'm going to do. Again, I implore you all, please review, leave kudos, anything. The review can be one letter and it will still motivate me to keep writing.  
> I love all my readers and will forever be grateful that they've supported me during this time. I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy and wearing their masks.

_ then _

“DEAN!”

Dean flinches at the yelp. When someone comes flying at him, he braces and reaches to his chest for his gun, but then he remembers that he doesn’t have the gun anymore. He woke up in the white room without it just two days ago and hasn’t been allowed near anything that could be used as a weapon since.

The most logical step after that is to flee. Dean manages a half-step back, ready to barrel back onto the train where he can use plates and silverware to defend himself, but there’s too many people behind him. He can’t go left and he can’t go right because of the massive crowd watching him. His only option is to stand and fight.

Sam throws himself into Dean’s arms, still squealing. Dean lets out a quick breath when a dull pain starts to ache in his side. “I knew you could do it! I knew you would come back!” His little fingers twist into Dean’s jacket like they’ll never let go. Dean hopes he never does. The tension melts from his frame. With Sam he’s safe.

A shadow falls over the embracing brothers and Dean looks up, reaching for his gun again as he looks into his father’s face. Again, the gun isn’t there, so Dean settles for squeezing Sam like his life depends on it.

“Knew you’d come back to us, boy,” John says quietly. There’s a faint tinge of pride and happiness in that tone.

Resentment surges up in Dean’s throat. It’s because of John that Jo died. That Sam was reaped.

He doesn’t get to be  _ happy _ . He should be suffering. He should be guilty. Jo’s death is on his hands. Dean’s continued life is on his hands.

The problem with living sacrifices is that they’re supposed to be dead. What good is a sacrifice if he can’t even do his job?

Dean looks just beyond John, right into Ellen’s lined, scowling face. He stands up, still clutching Sam to his hip like he’s a child—because he still is, baby Sam that Dean was supposed to die to save—and takes a hesitant step forward. The sun is shining directly into his eyes, making him squint, and though the day is clear and bright, a brisk wind whips through the square. Ellen’s image goes fuzzy, blurred by his eyelashes, as goosebumps rise on his arms.

“I’m—” Dean clears his throat. “Ellen, I—”

She holds up a hand to stop him, eyes glittering and jaw set with undisguised anger. Revulsion. It stings. “I can’t hear it right now, Dean.”

“You know I never wanted—” Dean starts, setting Sam down, heedless of the public watching the drama unfold. He can’t lose another person. Not Ellen. She’s the closest thing he’s ever had to a mother—apart from his hazy memories of Mary…

“Stop.” The word is quiet but authoritative. “Just stop, Dean.”

He wilts.

“You could have stayed with her. You could have prevented it.”

“I didn’t  _ know _ —”

“But you  _ suspected _ . Don’t make excuses for yourself, boy.”

Dean reels back, treading on Sam’s toes as he does, but Sam is struck as dumb as he is. Ellen’s never been this harsh with him before—he’s heard her take this tone with Jo before, when Jo did something especially terrible, but maybe it had something to do with John’s already harsh parenting and Dean’s lack of a mother that Ellen never talked to him and Sam like that.

“She went out of her way,” Ellen continues, poking Dean in the chest as her voice rises in volume, “to save you. She went out of her way to stick by you. And you leave her with that backstabbing little snake, and now she’s dead. Because of you.”

“Ellen—” Dean tries one more time, his voice shaking, but she shakes her head. “Please?”

“I can’t even look at you. You Winchesters are all the same, aren’t you?” She hesitates and then turns. She walks away.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean,” Sam whispers. “Dad says that she’s just angry. He says she’ll come ‘round.”

Dean shakes his head slightly. Jo got her stubbornness from her mother. If he knew Jo—and he did, well enough to fool a whole country—then Ellen won’t be talking to Dean for a long, long time. Maybe never.

“It happened to me, too,” Bobby says quietly behind Dean. “Small price to pay for your life.”

Dean doesn’t agree. Will he have to give up all his family in order to survive? He’s already lost Mary, Jo, and now Ellen… will John or Sam be next? What about Cas? Is this Naomi’s play—completely isolate him until he has nothing better in life to do than listen to her every command?

“Come on, boy,” the mentor commands, putting a gentle paw on Dean’s shoulder and steering him away from the curious eyes. “Let’s take a look at your new home.”

“New home?” Sam repeats. “Why can’t Dean come back with us?”

_ Because I’d wake you up every night screaming, just like how I’ve been waking up these past two nights. _

“Dean’s getting older, Sam,” Bobby says gently. “He’s gotta move out soon, just like you will. You’ll still see him every day. But won’t it be nice for you two to sleep in different beds? Different rooms, even?”

Dean can see why he’s a mentor, even if he is a hermited old drunk. He’s got a silver tongue that glints in the harsh sunlight, and somehow Dean still trusts Bobby more than John, despite how easily he deceives Sam. A few lies never hurt anybody, not in the way a few fists can.

“No,” Sam starts hotly, but John clears his throat. Sam bites his lip and scowls at the ground.

Dean looks up at the sky for a second to keep the tears from falling down his face. Just that simple exchange—Sam immediately falling quiet at John’s prompting—is such a far cry different than how Dean had left them. Where is the boy that defies John at every opportunity? Dean became a canvas painted by fists because of how many times John wasn’t satisfied with Sam. He’s not ready for Sam to carry that same burden.

What could John have possibly done in the short time that Dean was gone? How is Dean supposed to protect Sam from John if he also has to protect him from his nightmares by staying away from him?

Dean can see the hurt on Sam’s face when he doesn’t choose a neighboring home in the Victor Village. He chooses one that keeps him and Sam separated by three houses.

He won’t scream loud enough at night for his voice to carry that far, will he? Dean hopes not. Besides, this might make Naomi believe that he’s not as attached to his family as she’d like to believe.

“I can bring some of your stuff over,” John volunteers. “You and Sam explore inside the house. Pick out your room.” He pulls Dean into a hug, clapping his back, and Dean shudders.

“Funky town,” he whispers into his father’s ear.

John pulls back, that measured happiness still on his face, and pulls at his ear before spinning on his heel and walking away. It doesn’t give him much comfort. Pulling at one’s ear has never been a signal in the Winchester family.

Dean likes this new house for multiple reasons: it’s right in the middle of the Victor Village, so if he ever needs to run away, he’ll have an equal distance to go in either direction. He makes a mental note to time how long it takes him to run out of the Victor Village.

The house has a lot more life than his old one. He’s never seen anyone come to clean it up, but someone must; there’s no dust anywhere. It’s spotless.

By the time Sam’s finished exploring the main floor, John’s packed up all of Dean’s clothes, assorted trinkets, and toiletries. It only takes one suitcase, and a suspiciously short amount of time. He might have already had the bag packed. The second bag he brings he tells Dean not to open until he’s alone.

It’s a crate filled with different kinds of alcohol—the kinds of alcohol that John reeks of late at night. He’s turning into John more and more every passing day, and Dean can’t seem to stop himself.

After the first few burning sips of whiskey that make his face pucker up, Dean musters up enough courage to examine his body in the mirror. Doctors told him that all his scrapes were healed before he left for home, but to still treat himself with care. He hasn’t had enough courage to look at the physical scars left over from the Games, but that’s the funny thing about alcohol. It gives people the freedom to do things they’d never do sober.

The end of the scar that Dean had gotten from the hellhound peeks out from his left sleeve. Dean rolls it up until the whole scar is exposed. ‘Keloid’, the doctors in the Capitol had described it. It’s a pretty word for an ugly mark; the three lines are jagged, pink, and raised. They’re impossible to miss. When Dean tilts his head and squints, the scar could almost look like a branded handprint. One of the doctors, the most normal-looking one, explained that it looked like that because of excess protein in his skin while they were working on it because of the IV drip he’d had in his arm that was supplying him lifesaving nutrients.

That’s what Dean gets for being severely malnourished. He gets an ugly scar. Yay him.

Twisting around to see his shoulder provokes another ache to pulse through his side. Dean remembers grabbing Constance’s wrist, absurdly confident that that was the turning point in their fight, and she had pulled a fast one on him. The benefits of lifelong formal training, he supposes. She’d driven it right through Dean. It had been a miracle she hadn’t hit any vital organs.

‘Contracture scars,’ the same almost normal looking doctor had told him. Caused by burns. Dean had frowned; he’d been stabbed, not burnt, but she’d explained that they had to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding; it was impossible to stitch his skin together through all the blood. The small almost-circle looks to be made of spindly little folds in his skin, causing a tightness that Dean feels with every step. He twists his body and, sure enough, another identical scar mars his back. He was instructed to apply lotion to the areas every day for months to reduce loss of movement.

He’s not sure if he’s pleased or angry that there are scars to remind him of his time in the arena. Dean’s never been disillusioned about his looks; he’s averagely attractive at best. These scars lower him quite a few pegs. Who’d want someone whose ankle clicks and aches with every step because ‘a piece of the bone had flaked right off the joint’ and the doctors had had to ‘remove it from his bloodstream’ as it was ‘too small to reattach’? Who’d want someone whose left arm is halfway covered in puffy red lines that are impossible to ignore? Who’d want someone who’d had to be burnt until scarring so he could survive?

And that’s not even mentioning the nightmares.

Dean drops his shirt and turns away from the mirror.

He puts the lid back on the crate and shoves it into an unoccupied room, closing the door with some relief. He’s not his father. He’s not going to drown his sorrows in alcohol. It’s nasty-tasting, anyway.

* * *

_ now _

Dean stays in the same building every time he visits the Capitol on the intersection between streets thirty and thirteen. Unlike literally every single other surrounding building, this one has a metal staircase on its sides that Dean hadn’t wanted.

Or that’s what Naomi thinks.

There was a skewed message hidden in the staircase Dean had seen, but on the outside he just made a face and complained that it would remind him of the arena.

That had, of course, been the whole point. Naomi had been disappointed her subtle message hadn’t come across. She enjoys seeing the tributes squirm.

The building has two stories. It’s large enough for the whole Winchester family to live in, but Dean’s never invited them. Like he’d want Sammy that close to Naomi. He’d be delivering him on a silver platter.

Never mind that Sam resents him for that. Never mind that the brothers not only sleep in different beds now, but different rooms and houses as well. Never mind that Ellen hasn’t spoken to Dean for almost three years. Never mind that every tribute Dean has mentored has died. Never mind that Dean hasn’t slept through the night without the aid of alcohol for three years.

Never mind, never mind, never mind.

He should have let Constance kill him. This cage isn’t one with an available key. Hell, it doesn’t even have a lock.

There’s a small crowd waiting outside of his vacation home.  _ Beetles _ .

Dean takes a deep breath and opens the door. He’s entirely too sober for this.

“Mr. Winchester will not be signing autographs at this time,” someone says through a speaker hooked to the top of Dean’s house. Peacekeepers stand in rows outside of the car, serving as bodyguards Dean doesn’t want.

He doesn’t trust people whose faces he can’t see. He hardly trusts anyone whose face he can see, though, so it’s more that he has trust issues.

Dean could get out of the car. Turn to the right, where a pair of stick-thin girls with outrageous hair are walking. A right on thirty-second street, a left on fifteenth, and run straight until it intersects with thirty-eighth. He’d be at the train station. He could take the fifth train to District 5 that leaves in 45 minutes and be there in 3 hours. He calls that the Right plan.

Dean could get out of the car. Turn to the left, where a group of identically rose-colored boys are mingling. He could lose himself in the crowd. Take a left. Turn right on eleventh street. Take one more left on thirty-sixth street until he gets to the garage where John keeps all his extra stuff. Turn on the car and drive away. He calls that the Left plan.

Dean could get out of the car. Not turn at all. Walk up to the front door of the house he’d paid for in blood. Drown himself in alcohol whilst not thinking about the people he’s lost. Maybe this time they won’t bother to pump his stomach. Maybe this time he’ll be able to slip away peacefully. He calls that plan Reality.

Dean gets out of the car. He doesn’t turn. The beetles clamor for his attention and Dean flashes them a charming smile.

“Are you ready?” he bellows. The crowd screams back, though no one (including Dean) is exactly sure what they should be ready for. He’s glad that only that small interaction is required of him.

The silent wall protects Dean as he walks up to the door. The wood has been painted a blood red and the handle is a dull black that doesn’t gleam. Dean grabs the handle. It registers his fingerprints and allows him into the building.

It shouldn’t be a safe haven. Dean shouldn’t tense any less when he steps into the darkness. He’s still surrounded on all sides by beetles and Naomi’s henchmen.

But if he thinks about that too hard, Dean ends up in the hospital with tubes down his throat.

So he tries not to.

Though the inside of the house is dark, Dean knows that there are five ways out of the foyer: he could smash through any of the windows to his right (and commence with the Right plan) or run to the bathroom on his left and crawl out the window just above his toilet (which would be the starting point of the Left plan). He could also run to the right into the dining room (which would take him 4.3 seconds on average) or the left to the kitchen (4.7 seconds on average) or up to the second story of the house (12 seconds).

In the dining room, there are two windows that he could break with a running start, which would kickstart UpRight plan (which is just Right Plan but starting from the dining room), as well as an opening into the kitchen. There are no windows to smash in the kitchen, but there is a refrigerator that Dean could push in front of the opening from the dining room (in just 7 seconds) as well as an alcohol shelf that he could use to block off the entrance to the foyer (and that would only take him 9 seconds, with a few broken bottles). That would, of course, block him in the house, so that would be mostly a last resort—just a stalling tactic so he has enough time to kill himself if Naomi decides she wants him captured.

There is also the option of running up the stairs. There are four identical bedrooms on the second story, two on each side of the staircase. It takes Dean 14 seconds to run up the staircase and lock himself in either of the two closer bedrooms, and 17 seconds to lock himself in either of the two further bedrooms. In each bedroom is a bookshelf that he could push in front of the doors (which would take 2.5 seconds). Then Dean would lock himself in one of the walk-in closets that are provided and kill himself.

But only in case of emergency.

He takes his sweet time to turn on the lights. The foyer has been cleaned up. Last time he was here, he’d left shards of porcelain strewn about. Water, blood, and trampled white roses had been everywhere.

Now everything is immaculate. Dean’s fingers twitch with the urge to wreck everything again, but he only grants himself that pleasure when he knows Naomi will write it off as passion, not long-simmering resentment: whenever one of his tributes dies and whenever he’s at least four beers in, blood roaring through his ears but skin hard as iron. Dean doesn’t hurt when he’s drunk.

He allows himself to pretend for a few moments that he has privacy.

Then he walks into the kitchen  _ (refrigerator 7, alcohol 9) _ , where a phone hangs on the wall. The very moment he stops in front of the receiver, it rings.

Dean answers. One hand drifts up to the amulet hanging around his neck, worn dull from all the anxious rubbing he’s treated it to in the past years.

“Even more citizens are excitedly awaiting this year’s celebration,” the person on the other end of the call says without preamble.

Dean presses his blunt tongue to his cheek, almost cringing at the alien feel. He’s never really adjusted to the feel of the muscle missing its tip, and says nothing.

“Do try to restrain yourself tonight,” Naomi continues. “I’d hate for you to be in anything but perfect shape for the reaping and Opening Ceremony.”

“This is my last year,” Dean blurts out. ‘This’ comes out as ‘Thith’, but only because of how rushed he was talking. He’s been practicing talking for years. He sounds very nearly the same as before the Victory Tour. “Being a mentor is too much work.” He can’t stand to be responsible for two more deaths.

Of course, he hadn’t wanted to be a mentor in the first place, but Naomi had insisted. He’s been asking to quit ever since he’d started.

“No,” Naomi says simply, and that’s the end of that.

“Is there anything else you need?” Dean asks, so politely it chills him to his core. He doesn’t even slur ‘is’.

“That’s all!” Naomi chirps. “See you bright and early tomorrow, Dean!” She hangs up and Dean leans his forehead against the wall. He lets out a long, measured breath.

Naomi sure likes to flaunt her omnipresence.

The bag he’d brought sags to the floor. It’s the only weakness he’ll admit to.

The Avoxes have restocked the bar since the last time Dean was here. Maybe this time surveillance will be thin enough not to catch him drinking until it’s too late. Of course, he’d have to be sure about that—if he survives, Sam will get hurt because he disobeyed Naomi. If he dies, Sam won’t be hurt, because what’s the use in punishing a dead man?

Dean’s fingers have just brushed the top of a crystal bottle when his doorbell rings. With a groan, Dean turns around to answer the caller. There’s a fair number of people it could be—no beetles, obviously, but perhaps Charlie, any of the other Victors, Kara, another pretty Avox girl sent over by Naomi to entice him, or a Gamemaker—but Dean already knows who it is. It’s the same person that found him unconscious the last time he’d tried to drink himself to death.

He flings the door open. His visitor blinks. “Castiel,” Dean says flatly, shoving a hip into the door frame.

“Glad to see you back,” the escort replies, very obviously scanning his hands for bottles.

“I’m not drunk,” Dean grunts. “But I’m about to be. You showed up just in time for ’e party.” He takes a step back to allow the man into his home. Dean knows perfectly well that Castiel is working for Naomi, sent to make sure he doesn’t kill himself. But there’s also real concern in Cas’s eyes and Dean can’t seem to force himself to snap at him.

“It’s a party now?”

“A party of you and me,” Dean replies. “Obviously ’e best kind of party.” He glances at the escort, wanting to ask the question that’s been burning on his tongue for years— _ what does she have over you? _ He wants to know if Castiel’s allegiance to Naomi is forced or true. Can Dean trust him like he trusts Bobby Singer or Charlie?

John says no. For some reason Dean wants to say yes.

“I’d think you’d prefer your more… raucous parties,” Castiel says hesitantly. He walks gingerly through the foyer as if remembering the second-to-last time he’d been here, when there had been beetles passed out on the floor and hanging off of every surface.

Dean scoffs. “Not in a million years. You’re worth twenty beetles, Cas.”

He despises those parties. He’s surrounded by people without inhibitions while his own are lowered. It’s a wonder he hasn’t started to hit anyone yet. Or if he has, Naomi’s done a good job of keeping it quiet.

The parties were her idea, after all, and who is Dean to deny her anything? She wants to keep him popular, always at the forefront of the public’s minds, and what better way to do that than make him exclusive and desirable?

At least Dean can get away with only drinking and not participating in the more wild activities. He has no desire to try recreational drugs. The thought of being out of his mind is terrifying.

The one time he’d voiced those concerns to Cas, the escort had asked if Dean really doesn’t trust himself. Of course Dean doesn’t. He’s like John, he knows it, he just hasn’t had the chance to present those tendencies.

Dean is scared out of his mind of drinking in the Victor Village and Sam coming to visit him. He’s had nightmares of hitting Sam while drunk.

But with Cas, Dean never gets too drunk. Castiel makes sure he drinks water and never angers the Victor too much. He’s about 50% of Dean’s impulse control at this point. So, yes, Dean really does prefer more private parties with Castiel, even if he is being spied upon, rather than the raucous ones that invariably result in messes that take Avoxes hours upon hours to clean.

“That is extremely kind of you to say,” Cas says graciously, using his ‘escort’ voice. The difference between that voice and his relaxed voice is hardly noticeable, especially because of how deep his voice is, but after three years of interacting with him, Dean would be no better than Naomi if he couldn’t tell the voices apart. Hell, Cas is basically Dean’s best friend. He doesn’t have Jo anymore, and she was pretty much the only person Dean’s age that he talked to in District 5 and didn’t sleep with.

“No chick flick moments,” Dean grunts. “I’m sure there’s one scheduled sometime now that I’m back, anyway. If you’d like to come…” He looks hopefully at the escort, who has so far managed to avoid nearly all of the parties.

Cas takes the offered glass of whiskey with a murmured ‘thank you’. It’s his favorite kind, not that Dean’s noticed or anything. “I’m not really a ‘people person’, Dean. Or a ‘party person’.”

Dean can’t help it. Despite how crummy he feels, Cas’s incorrect use of finger quotations brings a reluctant smile to his face. “Me neither, buddy, but I still have to do it.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel replies vaguely. “I can’t help but feel that you make rather irresponsible choices when intoxicated. Perhaps it would be best if I was there. To supervise you, of course.”

“You don’t just have to be a stick in the mud,” Dean complains. He stands up to refill his glass, having drunk the whole thing without even realizing it, and Cas offers his half-full glass up for a refill wordlessly. “Have a little fun, bud.”

“I think you rather know the feeling of not trusting yourself whilst intoxicated,” Cas whispers to Dean’s turned back, just quietly enough it’s a question about whether he intended for Dean to hear. Dean’s hand jerks, spilling some of the whiskey onto the table. He wipes it up with the hem of his shirt and lifts the bottle up to the light, examining how much of it is left. Barely enough for another glass.

Dean sets the nearly empty bottle as well as the glass in front of Cas and lifts his cup in a toast. “Cheers to that, Asstiel.”

They slam their drinks back at the same time.


	2. Vam Pyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that reviewed! You all made me very excited to continue this story. I'm a little frazzled right now as I just started my new job and on my second day they had me work an 11 hour shift... rip. I'm working over 30 hours a week AND tomorrow is the first day of school so you could say I'm a little busy. Anyways, I will continue to chug away at writing this story and I'm excited for everyone's reactions to this chapter.

_ then _

Dean nervously adjusts the cuffs of his suit again. The uncomfortable spiked neck scrapes against his Adam’s apple when he swallows. The point digs into his neck like a dull knife. He’s sure that it’s meant to feel like it’s choking him on purpose.

He spins in the mirror again, attempting a cocky smirk. It falls short as his eyes catch on the subtle red accents of the brown suit. He looks like a wood encasing of an inferno that’ll crumble to ash in seconds. It doesn’t help that the bright white lights make Dean’s face look grey and his eyes washed out. He certainly  _ feels _ like crumbling.

Someone knocks on the door to his private room and Dean jumps. He adjusts his cuffs—a nervous habit—again before opening the door. Castiel stands in the doorway donning his usual trenchcoat. He’s lucky enough to have a complexion unaffected by these ugly, unnatural lights. They might even accentuate his eyes. His tie, dark blue against a wrinkled white dress shirt, definitely does.

“A present from Naomi,” he says without preamble, shoving a small white box into Dean’s hands. Dean’s first instinct is to drop it on the ground or refuse it, but to do so would raise suspicion.

“What is it?” he asks while opening the box. A small, black, distorted circle made of metal rests in soft black velvet packaging. Dean’s stomach, so delicate ever since he got back from the arena, roils at the sight of the extravagance the Capitol gets to enjoy with even the smallest of items. There’s not enough food in his stomach for Dean to throw it up, so he swallows down the sick feeling.

Funny how old habits die hard. He’s got as much of everything as he could ever want, and he can barely bring himself to eat, when before the arena he would’ve killed to have a steady supply of food.

In a way, he did kill for a steady supply of food.

“An earpiece,” Castiel answers, tilting the box so that it falls into Dean’s upturned hand. “Made for inconspicuous, rapid communication. Whoever has its pair will be able to talk to you.”

“Who’s on the other end?” Dean hopes it’s Cas, but he doesn’t see one of the same metal contraptions in either of Cas’s ears.

“Who do you think?” Cas’s eyebrows raise the slightest bit and he turns Dean’s head with four delicate fingers that burn when they grip his chin.

Dean scrunches his nose at the alien feeling of one ear being heavier than the other. “This is… fun,” he finally says lamely.

“Mmm,” Cas hums in reply. “You’ll get used to it. And here is your microphone.” It’s a simple black dot that he attaches to the spike that chokes Dean whenever he swallows. “It will be turned on in time for your speech.” He claps Dean on the shoulder and leaves as quickly as he’d come.

Dean sighs and taps his speech notecards against his left hand nervously. They’re all blank. He has the speech memorized. Maybe he should have written it out in case he blanks, but it’s too late now. A small humming noise is the only thing that alerts him the earpiece is on before a brisk voice in his ear commands him to leave the Justice Building. He recognizes the voice and wants to dash the communication device to the ground, but she could hurt Sam for that.

Will he really be walking on eggshells for the rest of his life?

When Dean opens the door, six Peacekeepers wait to flank him as he walks to the stage. Do they really think he’s going to be attacked? No, of course they don’t. Naomi wants to make sure Dean won’t run, but since Sam would be punished if that happened, the more likely choice is that she simply wishes to flaunt her power.

Dean stops for just a second before he opens the door. He can hear the low murmur of voices outside. Whenever a Victor came to District 5 in previous years, he’d glared up at them, hating the choices they’d made. Now the situation is reversed and he finally understands that they hadn’t really had a choice.

Dean opens the doors. The audience’s volume rises as they clap. Dean’s watched District 1 before, and they can appreciate a Victor whether they came from their district or not. He attempts a smile, which makes his dry lips stretch.

As he strides forward to the podium in the center of the stage, he sees the special platform constructed at the bottom of the stage for the families of the dead tributes. On Bela’s side—the right side—is a man and a woman, both tall and muscular. The woman has Bela’s hair and the man has her face. They are obviously her parents, and they watch Dean with calculating eyes. He may have locked their daughter in a room with a hellhound, but they knew what she was getting into when she volunteered. Dean can see in their eyes their relief that he was the Victor instead of a weaker tribute.

On Vam’s side a man stands, tall and proud, with a small child on his hip. He doesn’t look at Dean.

The District One mayor steps forward for his customary welcome. He spreads his arms wide, a welcome to everyone viewing, and it’s a glorious view. This district’s Justice Building is polished white marble perfectly maintained. One of the luxury materials District 1 produces is a shimmering paint—a favorite of the Capitol—and it covers the whole building. It’s dazzling, especially in the sunlight.

Riding the train into this district had been overwhelming. Though it is much smaller than District 5, Dean could not see a single man, woman, or child who was not fit and relatively young. Each citizen seems to have a purpose, and seeing the products they make—or even just parts of them—is breathtaking.

No wonder this is the Capitol’s favorite district.

“Step forward!” Naomi hisses into Dean’s ear and he startles. The mayor had stepped back to allow Dean to step forward. Again, the audience claps as a little girl, her hair braided into a rope that falls down her back, hands him an enormous bouquet of jewels arranged to look like flowers. Dean knows the bouquet is priceless, and probably the most delicate and expensive thing he’s ever held. He’s also quite sure that some of the poorer Road families will be ‘finding’ jewels that had been ‘dropped on the road’ for the next few weeks.

“Hello District One,” he says loudly, and startles when his voice echoes throughout the whole courtyard. The clapping dies down. “It is my honor to stand before you today.” Dean clears his throat and adds, “as the Victor of the 68th annual Hunger Games. Competing in the tournament is an opportunity very few are granted. I am only grateful that I was prepared to excel.”

The sound of thousands of people shuffling their feet fills the air until Dean clears his throat again. “Your tributes fought valiantly and will always be remembered in your hearts as well as mine.”

“Why would you care about them?” Naomi asks. “They were your opponents.”

Dean coughs. “Bela and Vam both died honorable deaths.”

“Stop talking about them,” Naomi orders. The brewing words die in Dean’s mouth. “I thought you had better instincts than this.”

“Ah…” Mentally, Dean skips forward to the end of his speech. “I am so grateful to the Capitol, and especially President Naomi, for the gifts that I have received.”

“Mention Joanna,” Naomi says in his ear. Dean clears his throat and shuffles his notecards again as she continues, “mention how you will miss her.”

“Of course,” Dean says haltingly, “I will forever miss the greatest gift of all in my life, and that was my s—lover, Jo. The Games gave me the opportunity to confess my feelings to her, and though our time together was short, I will always treasure it.”

The district’s citizens’ faces remain impassive, but Dean is sure that Capitol viewers are cooing at his words.

“Ah… thank you,” Dean ends, making it clear that he has finished his speech, and a smattering of hesitant applause starts until it is a deafening crescendo. Dean blinks and makes eye contact with Vam in the crowd as he starts to turn.

Then he stops short and whips his head around. The person is long gone in the shifting crowd, but he could have sworn… but no, Vam is dead. Dean shakes his head and turns. He looks up at the screen that had behind him, displaying the dead tributes’ pictures and the official Capitol seal.

Where Bela’s head should have been sits a grinning skeleton, its flesh hanging in ribbons, and it grins, stretching exposed muscles. Patches of hair—Bela’s hair—hangs in tangles and tatters on its bloodstained, obviously mangled, neck.

Dean makes a choking noise in the back of his throat and shakes his head. When he looks again, it is simply a picture of someone that had been.

“Did you see that?” he asks Cas in an undertone as his escort joins him in the Peacekeeper escort.

“See what?”

“The screen! It was—it was Bela!”

“Yes, I am aware, Dean,” Castiel replies, obviously bewildered. “It is customary to show their headshots.”

Dean rips the earpiece out of his ears with more force than necessary before Naomi can whisper more things into his ear. He already feels dirty enough dancing to her tune to keep Sam safe, but  _ literally _ listening to her 24/7? He would go mad. Maybe he’s already mad.

Later, when Dean watches the Capitol’s broadcast of the event, no matter how much he slows down the recording, there isn’t even a flicker of a skull in Bela’s headshot.

He’s not sure, exactly, what that means.

* * *

_ now _

Sam sighs as dramatically as he can even though nobody is home to see it. He’s bored out of his mind. Tomorrow is the Opening Ceremony of the 71st Hunger Games, so he’s sure Dean is having lots of fun in the Capitol as he prepares. And John’s at work, like he’s been for the past two days. 

Unfortunately, Sam is stuck at home. Like he’s been—for the past  _ three years. _ Now that Dean’s gone to take him out when he wants to be taken out, Sam’s got nothing to do. He’s read every book in the house at least three times. He’s watched reruns of past years’ Games for days on end without John bothering to interrupt him. Sam has learned how to play chess and checkers, how to braid hair, and gone through all five of the adult coloring books Bobby gave him for his birthday. There is  _ literally nothing _ left for Sam to do, and Dean won’t be back for at least two weeks. And even when he is back, it’s not like he has much time for Sam anymore.

Sam doesn’t even play with Sully anymore because he’s  _ fifteen _ now. He’s practically a grown-up. Unfortunately, being  _ practically _ anything isn’t as good as  _ actually _ being something.

With another dramatic sigh (seriously, Sam should be an actor on one of the Capitol dramas) he throws open the front window’s curtains to people-watch. He’s already laid on the ground in a patch of sunlight for two hours straight. Now, continuing with his transformation into a cat, Sam will glare at the people walking past as if he’s better even though they’re free to do what they want and he’s not.

Sam cranes his neck. Half of Bobby Singer’s house comes into view. It looks maintained but abandoned as usual. It’s not his shipment day, so there’ll be no movement visible. He’s one of the only people in District 5 who can afford to be a hermit, but while Sam’s isolation is forced upon him, Bobby’s is self-imposed.

Sam cranes his neck more, and the very edge of Ellen’s house comes into view. It looks more and more like Bobby’s every day.

Adults and their craving for isolation. It’s baffling.

Only a few people are out and about in the middle of the day. The Games haven’t started yet, which is a national excuse for everyone to get away from work and school. The only people walking around are an old Road woman, the occasional Peacekeeper, and the mayor and his son.

Sam’s never really understood why the two parts of District 5 are called the Road and the Town. He once heard Dean say something about ‘the road to hell and all that’, which didn’t really clear anything up for him.

Prez Kline and his son, Jack, hold hands as the toddler waddles down the street at about two steps a minute. The man’s patience must be tremendous.

The sun shifts just enough to hit the baby’s golden head.  _ Dean was blond like that when he was younger, _ Sam notices. He tries to imagine Dean that small and can’t; Dean has never been anything other than imposing and intimidating to Sam. The end result is an oddly buff baby that looks a combination of comical and unnatural.  _ I was that small when I was younger, _ Sam notices blandly. He wasn’t that blond, though.

When Jack is older, maybe he and Sam might be friends or at least friendly acquaintances. Kelly Kline, his mother, died in childbirth, so dead mothers are one thing they have in common. Not that it’s a good thing to have in common. But at least Kelly didn’t have a choice about leaving. She didn’t  _ choose _ to leave her family like Mary had. Jack had been lucky enough in that aspect.

Plus, Jack has a doting father. Sam’s not even sure if John remembers that he has a son half of the time, let alone two. It’s hardly a new habit of his—it wasn’t uncommon for him to leave for days at a time as Sam was growing up, and Dean once had to tell Sam harshly not to call him ‘Dad’. Still, Sam had hoped—in vain, it would seem—that with Dean gone, John would take over his job. Sam shouldn’t be locked in the house for days on end, but apparently that isn’t one of John’s concerns.

The only excuse Sam can think of for John is that he’s working with the rebels. Almost certain that’s what he’s actually doing, too, Sam doesn’t generally ask John where he’s been when he comes back.

Considering how little has happened in the three years since Dean won the Games, Sam can’t help but also think that the rebels are sort of… incompetent. Sam’s losing Dean to the Capitol. He’ll be gone by the time the rebellion even  _ starts _ at this rate.

John’s prioritizing the rebellion over his own sons. No, that’s not quite right. He’s prioritizing his revenge over his own sons. Sam’s under no illusions that John’s fight isn’t with the Capitol that keeps the districts in poverty. His fight is with Naomi for making him fight in the Games.

The thought of facing Dean on a battlefield curdles Sam’s stomach. He relaxes the fists he’d clenched unconsciously.  _ It’s not going to happen, _ he reminds himself.  _ It doesn’t matter how many gifts the Capitol gives him. I’m still Dean’s _ brother.

Though that doesn’t really seem to matter to Dean, considering how much time he spends at the Capitol. He doesn’t even call, no matter how much Sam begs, and he’ll never postpone a trip for any reason. Sometimes he’ll even drop plans with Sam to rush to the Capitol.

People say absence makes the heart grow fonder. That’s not the case in this scenario.

Sam grows more worried, more resentful of the Capitol, more resentful of Dean himself for abandoning this family the second he had a better offer. More resentful that Dean is abandoning him like Mary had. More resentful that Dean doesn’t seem to know or care that John hasn’t changed at all.

On the contrary, the people of the Capitol love Dean the more they see him.

The saying might be correct in the cases of the schoolchildren of District 5, however. Dean disappearing for weeks on end to go to the Capitol just adds to his mystery. Sam’s heard people in his class talking about how they’re sure he’s partying with other Victors and killing hellhounds.

If that’s the case, then no wonder he likes to stay in the Capitol so much. Sam wouldn’t even blame him. He’d love to come along, too. Killing hellhounds sounds  _ awesome _ .

With a sigh, Sam shuts the window’s curtains, significantly reducing the amount of light in the room, and surveys the room in a futile effort to discover something,  _ anything _ , that will alleviate the boredom.

Someone pounds on the door and Sam jumps. “Hello?”

“It’s Bobby Singer,” the Victor calls gruffly through the thick door. “Open up, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t hesitate. John trusts Bobby, and Sam needs a break the boredom.

“Hey, boy,” Bobby says gently when he opens the door. “You’ve been holed up in here for a few days straight, huh?”

Sam stands up straighter and cocks his head. “How’d you know?”

“You think you’re the only person ‘round here who can keep track o’ people?” Bobby asks, raising one eyebrow.

Sam hadn’t even bothered to consider that while he was watching Bobby, Bobby was watching him back. He’s always been invisible to most of the district. Invisible to everyone but Dean, really. He’s not used to the sensation of being watched. “What do you want, then?”

“It’s not good for a growing boy to stay inside all day,” Bobby answers. He scratches his beard and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘Been telling John for years’. Sam, knowing better than to ask grownups to clarify what they said for fear of them thinking he’s dumb, stays quiet and waits for him to elaborate. “We’re gonna go out,” Bobby adds.

“Did Dad say it was okay?”

“Do you need your daddy’s permission to do everything, Sam? You’re almost a man. Gotta start thinking for yourself.”

“So then what are we doing?” Sam asks, stepping out and shutting the door behind him. It’s warmer outside than he’d anticipated. He breathes in the fresh air, relishing the smell of smoky meat from the butcher’s a few streets over, in the heart of the town.

Bobby holds up a baseball. It’s such a weird sight that Sam can’t help but laugh. “You know how to play ball?” he asks incredulously.

“I was a boy only a little while ago, you know!”

“‘A little’?” Sam snorts. He can’t imagine Bobby as a young person.

Bobby cuffs Sam affectionately on the shoulder. “Don’t make me feel old, boy. Let’s go.”

“Can we get ice cream, too?” Sam asks, falling half a step behind Bobby. “Dean takes me to get ice cream all the time.” It’s not exactly true. Dean rarely has enough money to buy treats, but he tries to treat Sam whenever he can. It’s always a great affair that lasts the whole day. Sam will savor the treat until it’s a huge mess and he’s drinking the last bits of it, and then Dean will remind him that it’s oh-so-secret that they got ice cream, and then they get to go home and keep a secret from John together.

“Sure,” the Victor says easily, slinging one arm over Sam’s shoulders so that they’re walking side by side. For every step Bobby takes, Sam has to take two. He’s practically jogging. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Vanilla,” Sam says confidently. Strawberry is too sweet for him, and he has to be in the right mood to want chocolate. Vanilla, however, goes with every mood.

“Yeah? That’s a good choice.” Bobby elbows Sam. “Basic, but solid. What about Dean? What’s his favorite flavor?”

Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out as he tries to search his memory. “Ah… He doesn’t have one. I… Dean never got… any ice cream. Never.” How had he not noticed?

“He doesn’t like it?”

“I guess not,” Sam says slowly.

“He never got any?”

“Well, I’m sure he had to have it at least once to know that he doesn’t like it,” Sam reasons. “Probably when we were younger.”

“All right,” Bobby says, frowning. Sam doesn’t know why.

Sam has to hurry to eat when he gets the treat. It’s warm enough today that it starts to melt immediately, making his fingers sticky. One drop manages all the way down his arm before Sam licks it off.

Bobby orders a chocolate ice cream. It’s weird to see him ingesting anything that’s not meat or alcohol. In true Bobby fashion, he bites the ice cream, making Sam shudder, and it’s gone long before it could even think about melting and making a mess on his hands. He’s done with his before Sam’s is a third of the way gone.

Bobby grabs a few napkins and they leave the small shop. Sam savors the last bit of his ice cream as they walk to the park, occasionally accepting an offered napkin from Bobby. Once he’s finished with the treat, he cleans himself up as best he can and throws the soiled napkins in a nearby trash can.

Jack Kline and his father are there as well. They always are at this time of day. Prez Kline’s job—any mayor’s job, Sam supposes—is made very easy by the presence of Peacekeepers in District 5. The more Peacekeepers, the less it appears Prez has to do, and Sam’s seen Peacekeepers flooding into the district off the train. He’s not sure if they’re here for the rebellion or if they’re loyal to Naomi. They can’t all be loyal to Naomi. Not if the head Peacekeeper of District 5 and his second-in-command are rebels.

Jack’s in the swing. There’s only one, and it’s creaky. Some of the kids at school swear they’ve been able to go all the way around on the swing, upside down and all, but Dean will just snort at whoever makes that claim. He says that the swing would fall over if someone tried to go more than five feet high on it, but Sam swears that he can fly if he pumps his legs hard enough.

“So John hasn’t been home in a few days, huh?” Bobby asks, tossing the ball underhanded to Sam. Sam catches it easily and chucks it back. A little ways away, a group of scruffy-looking Road kids throw a glittering ball back and forth in the air.

“No,” Sam admits. “He does it a lot. He’ll come home in a few days, probably.” He’s been doing it so much more now that Dean’s gone all the time.

Sam understands it’s because of the rebellion. Doesn’t make it feel less like he’s being abandoned.

Bobby frowns. “And Ellen doesn’t care?” Behind him, Jack squeals as Prez pushes him. Sam can hear the swingset groaning with every move of the chain.

“I think she’s gone with him,” Sam shrugs. “The lights in her house have been off for days. Besides, she doesn’t come over even when she is home. She really hates Dean.” Sam scowls and adds hotly, “Even though it wasn’t his  _ fault _ —”

“Never said it was, boy. That’s what happens in the Games.” Bobby fumbles with his catch and the ball goes rolling in the grass.

“Well, yeah,” Sam says loudly. “People die. That’s the whole  _ point _ .” He rolls his eyes. Bobby’s a Victor. He should know better than anyone that the point of the Games is for people to die. Hell, he’d killed a few people himself. It’s a necessary evil to stay alive.

“But how would you feel if Dean had been the one to die and Jo had lived?”

“But she didn’t, so it doesn’t matter,” Sam shrugs. Bobby throws it back to Sam and Sam’s hand closes before it’s fully in his hand, so the ball hits a closed fist and falls to the ground. He bends down to pick the ball up. When he looks up, Jack is toddling towards the small metal slide, and behind it, towards them. Sam thinks he might make eye contact with the child, but he quickly looks away and throws it to Bobby.

“You don’t miss Jo too?” Catch.

“Well, I mean, yeah, but she was Dean’s friend more than mine.” Throw.

Bobby opens his mouth to say something more, but someone else cuts him off.

“I play too?”

Jack Kline tugs on Bobby’s sleeve. Prez stands off awkwardly to the side with his hands in his pockets, eyes cast to the sky like it’s interesting to watch the clouds float by.

“Sure, bud,” Bobby says easily. “You like to play ball?”

Jack holds out hands cupped together and Bobby hands him the ball. The boy tries an underhanded toss to Sam that makes it halfway between the two children.

With a sigh, Sam picks up the ball and sits down. “Sit down, dude,” he instructs. Jack follows the order. Sam rolls the ball to him. It slows down because of the grass just a few inches from Jack’s feet.

Jack squeals and tries to roll it back, but in his excitement he just throws it. Sam snatches it out of the air. “No, not like that. Like this.” Sam demonstrates. “See?”


	3. Constance Welsh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I have started my job and work around 32 hours a WEEK. My feet hurt so much. Also, school has started and I'm already behind in all my classes so that's fun. Please review; you're the only thing keeping me going.  
> Also, give it up for Lansfics7 who got accepted into her dream college yesterday!!!! I'm so proud of her, she's all grown up. Like a full grown adult now.

_ now _

They take Sam from his arms. Dean screams and screams and screams but there’s so much going on—so many other people screaming—that nobody hears him. Nobody takes notice of the Peacekeepers holding two little boys in their arms. Nobody takes notice of the Peacekeepers dragging Mary along behind them. Nobody even takes notice of John Winchester’s unconscious body in the entrance of the hydroelectric dam, and they won’t for another five hours until he staggers out of the building, blood dripping from his hairline.

Dean continues to scream, feet kicking wildly, until Yellow Eyes holds him up by the scruff. “Shut the hell up, kid,” he growls into his face. Dean can only choke as the collar of his shirt digs into his throat.

“Don’t you talk to him that way!” Mary snarls. She’s met with a swift slap from a Peacekeeper still wearing a mask.

Yellow Eyes drops Dean. Dean cries out when his chin collides with the ground, but he’s shoved onto his feet and forced to keep walking.

“Mommy,” Dean sobs.

“It’s all right, Dean,” Mary soothes. The Peacekeeper holding her right arm shakes her roughly and she glares at him. “It’s all right, Dean. They’re not going to hurt an innocent child.” She spits the words like curses, and Yellow Eyes only smiles back.

Dean walks with the procession all the way to the train station and he boards the train without protest. One of his hands rests on Sammy’s baby blanket, and a perpetual scowl adorns his face as he scolds the Peacekeeper.

“No, not like  _ that _ . You have to support his head.”

Yellow Eyes rolls his eyes.

“Hold him close to your body! You’ll drop him!”

“Hey, kid,” Yellow Eyes barks. “Over here.” He has a needle in his hand.

Dean turns to him with his lower lip stuck out in a pout. “I don’t like shots.”

“Sucks,” the head Peacekeeper shrugs. “Get over here. I won’t ask again.”

“Azazel,” one of the other Peacekeepers mutters. “He  _ is _ just a kid—”

“Shut it, Drexel,” he orders.

“Dean,” Mary starts, but Dean’s already started walking over to the mean older man. He looks right into his unnatural yellow eyes as he sticks him with the needle. Dean shivers, an odd cool feeling passing through him that’s gone as quickly as it came. He scurries back to the Peacekeeper holding Sam.

“Can I hold Sammy now?”

“No,” Yellow Eyes barks, but the Peacekeeper that had been holding Sam has already passed Sam over.

“What did you do to my son?” Mary asks.

“Injected poison into his bloodstream,” Yellow Eyes responds, keeping his eyes on the small boy. He rolls his eyes, leaving everyone on the train wondering if he was being sarcastic or not. “It’ll all be explained when we get there.”

“Get where?”

“The Capitol,” Dean realizes, his arms falling to his sides. He was never holding Sam. Or was he? Or did he just hand him over?

It doesn’t really matter. The details never really mattered. No matter if Dean is telling the story or if John is. No matter if the audience is Dean or Sam or John or a thousand rebels or Naomi herself. The straight facts are that Sam, Dean, and Mary were taken to the Capitol on a train, escorted by Peacekeepers. There was a white room that Dean only remembers in his dreams. And then Sam and Dean came home after three days.

In his waking hours, Dean doesn’t remember why he hates Azazel. He knows the basics. It’s enough to hate him. John planted that hatred, watered and cared for it, and he’s been reaping its benefits for fifteen long years.

In his dream, Dean turns around.

The train compartment has transformed, and it’s not moving either.

The whole room is white, too bright, and there are no decorations or furniture. The only spot of color is Dean. He’s alone.

He spins slowly on his heel, looking for any escape, and that’s when he sees the grey window his back had been to. It’s a one-way window, he knows instinctively, and someone is probably watching him right now. All he can see is himself in the reflection. Small and scared and four years old. His chin is scraped and pink and his eyes are puffy and red-rimmed. His reflection tells one story, but Dean looks down at his hands and sees the small scars littering them that tell a different story.

“Where am I?” he demands of the unseen audience. “What do you want? Where’s Sammy?”

“Don’t worry,” a wrinkled doctor with a kind smile says, strapping Dean’s arm to the chair he falls into. “This will all stop once Mary tells us what she did.”

“Did? Did what?”

Countless more beetles, all with hair too colorful to be real, skin too glittery to be real, and clothing too reflective to look at, all filter into the room and coo at Dean, running their hands all over his arms and legs. The collective hands cover him, touching every inch of him, and though they don’t speak, the whisper of fabric against fabric is enough to drive away the silence.

The wrinkly doctor sticks another needle in Dean’s arm as he cringes away from the beetles.

“Hey! What was that?” he demands.

“More poison,” the doctor says, standing up and addressing the one-way window. “A poisonous virus, Dean. Remember the poison. It’s important. It’s important for Sam. Remember the virus!”

“Okay,” Dean says slowly. “The poison. Remember the poison.”

The doctor presses a button on the wall and the wall he’s facing lifts into the ceiling. Mary sits in an ornate chair, a crown of barbed wire upon her head. Little rivers of blood trace down her forehead.

“Mommy?” Dean asks. His heart starts to pound in his chest.

“I can’t tell them, Dean. I’m sorry, but you’re not worth it.”

“Worth what?” The pounding is getting uncomfortable. Dean swears he can actually feel his heart jumping against his rib cage.

“He’ll die,” the wrinkly doctor cuts in. “You’re going to die, Dean, unless you remember.”

“Remember what? Ah—” Dean winces and puts a hand to his chest. He can feel his heart pounding through his skin. “Ow. What’s going on?”

“He’s infected,” Naomi says coldly from behind Mary. She’d been lurking in the shadows and is undoubtedly the person that had crowned Mary. Her hair is red and longer than Dean remembers it. She has less wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. She, too, wears a crown, but no blood drips down her face. “He’ll die without the antidote. Tell us, Mary, what did you do?”

“I saw the stars,” Mary says softly from behind Dean. He falls out of the chair and whirls. Jo smiles softly at him. Her teeth and shirt are stained red. “Weren’t they beautiful, Dean?”

“No,” Dean admits, barely a whisper, and to her credit, Jo doesn’t look surprised. “They were fake and we were caged. There’s no beauty in the Games, Jo.” He looks around. He’s surrounded by lush greenery not like the forest around District 5 and, he suspects, around every district.

He recognizes that cave.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jo shrugs. She sidles closer to Dean, flipping her father’s knife in her hand. “ _ You _ were.”

Dean’s face twists. Why would anyone consider him beautiful? He killed so many people during the Games in terrible ways. That’s unredeemable. “And look at me now.”

“Look at you now,” she agrees.

Dean rushes out, “I’m so sorry, Jo. I didn’t know—I didn’t  _ want— _ ”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts softly, reaching for Dean’s cheek. Her fingers ghost against the stubble there. She stops flipping the knife and holds it by the handle. “I know.”

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out. “I miss you so much.  _ So much. _ ” Dean leans into the soft touch, his eyes drifting shut. He can’t feel his heart in his chest and he doesn’t remember the poison. He survived the Games but he died in the arena. How much longer will he have to endure until he sees Sam again without worrying about his life?

Dean doesn’t flinch when Jo drives the knife into his side. The end of it pokes out of his back.

He wakes with a gasp, eyes watery and a phantom pain in his stomach. He checks to make sure that he wasn’t really stabbed in his sleep, but there’s no blood, just a few ugly scars. With a relieved breath, Dean flops back down on the mattress to catch his breath. He’d wanted to try to sleep without the aid of alcohol for once. He’s already forgetting his dream, but the vague unsettling feeling in his stomach reminds him why he drinks.

When he sits up, his arm twinges with a little bit of pain and he looks at it. His left forearm is slightly pink and raised outlines of nail paths on his skin are visible. He’d been scratching at it in his sleep.

_ At least it’s not bruises on my wrists, _ Dean thinks grimly, and a little morbidly. He’s already in a foul mood. He doesn’t feel at all like he’d slept. The light in his room is much too bright and doesn’t help his pounding headache. All in all, Dean is not happy.

“And that is why I drink before sleeping,” he mutters; the nightmares. He may sleep, but it’s not restful. And he always seems to have a constant pounding headache nowadays. Better to black out and never be sure when he’ll wake up.

Someone had come into his room while he was sleeping and laid out his clothes for the day. It’s a simple outfit, one that he would choose for himself. It’s the Opening Ceremony today, though, so he’s sure a more flamboyant outfit will be supplied to him later on.

“It’s going to be a long day,” Dean groans. He rolls out of bed and shrugs on the red flannel chosen for him. On to breakfast in the exclusive Victor club before he has to mentor his tributes.

Why even bother, though? They’ll be dead in just a few days.

His bed calls out to him again. It takes more willpower than Dean would like to admit to resist it.

No, Cas and Charlie are waiting for him at breakfast. He has to go, at least to assure Charlie that he’s still alive.

With a groan, Dean ambles down his stairs, into the kitchen (7 seconds refrigerator, 9 seconds alcohol shelf) and takes the phone off the wall.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester,” a woman says on the other end. “Where shall I transfer you today?”

“The garage,” Dean grunts. A loud beep makes his headache worse, and then a gruff male voice asks him what he wants. “Can you bring my car to my—” he chokes. “My house, please?”

The man tells him it’ll be five minutes and Dean tells him that’s okay. Then he hangs up and sits down at his kitchen table. There’s no food in his pantry to eat right now and he’s not in the mood to drink water. He’d also promised Charlie to not start drinking until at least after breakfast. His right leg bounces anxiously and he rubs the amulet hanging on his neck, pulling just enough that it’s a struggle to keep his head upright. He doesn’t even know why he’s anxious.

“I’m so not sober enough for this,” he declares to no one. “Sorry, Charlie.” He knows it’s not safe to drive while intoxicated, but, Dean rationalizes while pouring whiskey into a glass, he has such a high tolerance that a few glasses will only lessen his stress. His reflexes will still be fine.

His head falls back and he downs the whole glass in one gulp. It burns his throat on the way down and Dean chokes. A small amount of whiskey dribbles out of his mouth while Dean swallows the rest of it painfully, his eyes watering as he wipes his chin and hacks. Before he can pour himself another glass, a car horn startles him. Dean can’t help it; a smile spreads across his face.

His Baby—well, technically John’s Baby, but whatever—waits outside his house (right plan, left plan). A short man tosses her keys to Dean and he snatches them out of the air. “Oh, Baby,” Dean coos. “It’s been too long.”

Even though Dean first rode in Baby as a Victor, and never with anyone else, sitting in her spotless interior reminds him of being a child. He can feel Sam, John, and Mary beside him when he’s in the car. Something about her simply reminds him of family.

The car’s engine roars and the few beetles in the street quickly jump out of the way. Dean presses hard on the gas pedal with his right foot, almost relishing the click of his ankle that accompanies almost every one of his movements.

_ Turn right on thirty-second, left on fifteenth. Straight until thirty-eighth. Train station. Right plan. Escape. _

Dean turns right on thirty and drives down the road all the way until it intersects with seventeen, where he turns left. There are Victor’s clubs all over the Capitol, spaced out by about five miles so no Victor is out of options of where to go to eat, socialize, or sulk. The civilian clubs are more Dean’s style, with their lack of inhibitions, their pulsing lights and pounding music, and the writhing of colored body against colored body—or they were, before too many people in one small area made his heart race. Before not being able to notice everything around him made him jittery.

Each Victor club is huge, taking up a whole intersection by itself. He can’t deny the intricate infrastructure and hard work poured into the construction of each Victor club is exquisite. The way the walls are shaped so that every sound is muffled, the comfortable cushions and chairs, and the bottomless drinks and food make the place an ideal place to gather with others.

Dean knows that he shouldn’t enjoy this lavish lifestyle, but he understands why Careers climb over themselves in order to become Victors. This is the lifestyle that people are willing to die and kill for. There is no food insecurity in the Capitol, no overbearing fathers, no reason to wear long sleeves. There is drinking, and the hatred of the body that he sees in the mirror, but there is also food for himself, and food for Sam. It’s difficult not to feel accomplished and secure.

Difficult, that is, except for when the phone rings just as Dean looks at it. Difficult when he remembers that his best friend is inextricably in the grasp of his greatest enemy.

Dean pulls into his favorite Victor club’s parking lot, taking up three spaces without caring at all, and locks the car, knowing that nobody would dare even breathe on it.

The Victor’s club on seventeenth, affectionately nicknamed the Roadhouse for reasons Dean can’t quite remember now, is made primarily of white sparkling marble like every Victor club. The dome-shaped building is cut into strips of clear glass just asking to be smeared with fingerprints that extend to the very top of the dome. The glass manages to shine sunlight into his eyes no matter where he’s standing. He’d asked Castiel about it once and he’d explained that the glass is textured. Corsica, Cas had called it. The pattern is wide so if Dean draws close enough, he might have a flat enough window to peer inside, but from far away the building is simply blinding.

When Dean draws closer to the building, he can make out the rose-petal pattern carved a centimeter deep and a millimeter wide in the marble. The stone was obviously made in District 1, but Dean can’t fathom anyone managing to carve the pattern so perfectly, so intricately. It’s a sight only the privileged—the people closest to the Games—are able to fully notice.

Inside the Roadhouse is an open floor area littered with white couches, and a staircase leads up to a second floor that is just a walkway around the dome’s perimeter. Inside, the glass isn’t blinding, but allows fractured light to illuminate the space in countless individual beams like spotlights, like when Dean uses a mirror to reflect sunlight onto his wall, but a thousand times. The marble strips prevent the light from being overwhelming. And to account for the sun moving in the sky, Avoxes periodically shift the couches so that some are in sunlight and some are in the shade.

To Dean’s right is a white-clothed table in the combined shade of two marble strips boasting desserts that tempt one to skip the actual meal. The actual meal, which Avoxes set out, rests on multiple smaller tables scattered around the room so that Victors, their stylists, and their escorts don’t have to walk very far from their couches to get food. Those tables are also shifted, so that the warmer foods may remain in the sun and foods best served cold or room-temperature are more shaded.

On both sides of the Roadhouse’s entrance is an open bar. Anyone can pour themselves any amount of any drink. Castiel usually looks at Dean with disapproval when he pounds shots over there, or even ingests any alcohol. For some reason, it stills his hand, at least while he’s in the Roadhouse.

Being in this room, breathing in the stillness of the area, the intricate beauty all around him—Dean can’t help but want to be better when he’s here. Water doesn’t taste as bland when served here. He doesn’t mind not drinking when he’s in this room.

To Dean’s left is the bathrooms and, outside of that, a table with a pyramid of little glass bottles on it. The bottles are, of course, filled with the drink that induces vomiting, and therefore rarely touched.

Victors are territorial. Dean is no exception. When he visits the Roadhouse, he tends to sit in one specific couch that is completely identical to every other around it, but he enjoys the shade it sits in and its position—that is, with its back to the wall, where it would be hard to sneak up on him, no matter what he’s doing at the moment. Of course, Castiel and Charlie have their own couches nearby, and to Dean’s right is a gorgeous dark mahogany table that they occasionally eat meals at, but generally they’re lazy and eat on the couches. And if they spill, well, the stain is taken care of by the next day.

Cas and Charlie are already sitting on their couches, conversing quietly. Neither have food in their hands, which Dean finds ridiculous—he’s absolutely starving. Unless they’ve already eaten.

His presence in the Roadhouse prompts a wave of applause. Dean smiles awkwardly and waves at a few of the more starstruck stylists, but at least they know better than to approach him.

Charlie and Cas notice Dean because of the applause. A genuine smile spreads across Cas’ face. The change from his usual seriousness makes Dean’s stomach feel like he missed a step going down the stairs.

He beckons his two friends over to the nearest meal table. A platter of bacon sits next to a platter of sausages, and their smell makes Dean’s mouth water. Next to the sausages are blueberry muffins, which is Cas’s favorite food, especially when he pours honey on the treat. Charlie’s favorite breakfast, a bagel, rests away from those foods, separated by eggs, pancakes, and waffles.

Dean piles his plate high with one pancake and waffle each along with, as Charlie puts it, ‘a sickening amount of meat’. The food isn’t the only thing Dean likes about the Roadhouse, but it is by far his favorite part.

Castiel’s arm brushes against Dean as he reaches for a muffin and the sleeve of his trenchcoat almost falls in a small bowl of whipped cream. Dean saves him just in time, nearly dropping his plate in the process.

“Thank you,” Cas says, his voice unnecessarily somber as usual, and a combination of what Dean tells himself is unused hatred he’d had for the man while growing up, and the rush of him not being a shithole for once, makes Dean’s heart race.

“So, Cas,” Dean says waspishly while sitting down. “Killed any innocent kids lately?” It’s a sensitive topic for the escort, he knows, but Dean also knows that he likes to irritate Cas and that he won’t take real offense, nor will he be actually upset. He’s just resigned, which is almost worse, and makes Dean want to rib him more. He can’t help but wonder when Castiel will snap—or  _ if _ he will.

Cas sends him back a look of suffering and weariness. Not that he’s guilty about the kids he’s killed, though. Just that Dean is relentless. And annoying. Relentlessly annoying.

Charlie clucks her tongue as she swipes on her little electronic pad. The chip injected into his arm before the Games does much more than track his location. It’s linked to Charlie’s pad somehow and gives her all sorts of insight into his health. He’s not entirely comfortable with the whole thing, but, having been brought up in the Capitol, Charlie has no concept of boundaries. “Dean. Your liver is just getting worse. Didn’t we agree you would stop drinking so much? We have plenty of other options…” She trails off when Dean shoves the whole pancake in his mouth and rips a portion of it like a dog with a slab of meat. He’d drenched the food in maple syrup that he can barely taste.

Cas crosses his arms and glares at Dean. Dean stares up at the ceiling pointedly, chewing and swallowing his pancake before shoving a whole sausage into his mouth. He’s not going to start taking morphine or some other addictive Capitol drug. It’s a clever way to keep the pet killers in check, but Dean’s not ready to walk into his cage just yet.

“How long are we betting on?” Dean asks.

The two tributes this year are people he went to school with. They were in his grade, just a few months younger than he. Just a few months unlucky. In fact, this week the female tribute would be too old to be reaped.

Dean’s going to watch his friends suffer and die, and he can’t do anything about it because if he protests in any way, if he even blinks in a way Naomi doesn’t like, Sam could die.

He rolls his ankle, wincing at the usual click, and stuffs the rest of the pancake into his mouth, almost choking himself. Death by choking on a pancake is a pretty nice way to go. He wouldn’t completely mind.

Sam’s fifteen now.

Only four more years.

“Gabriel and Kevin—” Cas starts and Dean groans. Cas tries again. “They want—”

“Just stop,” Dean says tiredly. Dean’s met both Gamemakers multiple times, and he’s liked them less and less each time. Every time he looks at Kevin’s shaggy hair or watches Gabriel pig out on Capitol sweets he feels that dangerous burning hatred for this whole country in his stomach. It’s not even that he can’t really taste sweetness anymore.

He can’t look at them without seeing Krissy. Or Jo. Or Bela. Or even Constance.

That being said, looking at Cas doesn’t pose the same problem. Dean doesn’t know why.

There’s a smattering of applause when someone walks into the Roadhouse. It’s not nearly as loud or as long as the applause Dean had gotten. He looks up and his stomach tightens with dislike. The newcomer is the most recent Victor, so she should be the biggest celebrity in the Capitol right now, especially considering she was deaf when she won the Games, which makes her all that much more unique. As a Victor, obviously, the fancy Capitol doctors fixed her hearing, and Dean knows for a fact that an Avox died in order to get the right body parts needed for the fix.

She hates him, too. Every Victor that’s won since Dean—one boy; Brady, and the girl; Eileen—have all despised him.

Victors are at their peak popularity during their first year, or if they mentor a particularly outstanding tribute. By all means Dean should be a B-, if not C-, list celebrity right now; he won three years ago and all the tributes he’s mentored have died. But in the districts, flaming sword graffiti still shows up occasionally, as if they believe Dean can help them. He can’t even help himself.

And Capitol citizens are obsessed with his love life, thinking that it’s sweet to mourn for Jo for so long. Add that to his status as the only killer of a hellhound and apparently stunningly good looks he’s grown into recently, and he’s still as popular as if he was this year’s Victor. Of course, that shoves the more recent Victors out of the limelight.

Because Eileen was deaf, she hadn’t been able to give a good interview. Anyone in the Capitol has disabilities such as deafness taken care of at a young age, so sign language interpreters don’t exist. In fact, many citizens weren’t even aware that sign language exists. All Dean knows about it is that it’s rare and each district pretty much has its own dialect.

Andrew wrote down his questions on a piece of paper that Eileen read, and then she would write her answers back. Andrew tried his best, he really did, but she didn’t get a lot of support.

Besides, Eileen killed the District 5 female tribute last year. So not exactly a warm and fuzzy relationship.

“There’s Kara,” Charlie says suddenly. “I’ll be right back.”

Dean stares at his hands as she leaves. Being alone with Castiel always leaves him with a whirlwind of emotions in his stomach. Belatedly, he realizes that there’s a shallow cut on the heel of his hand that he doesn’t recall getting.

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Cas asks.

Dean tears his eyes away from the cut and forces a smile. “I’m great.”

Cas purses his lips. Dean can’t stop himself from remembering that the escort is older than him. One year older. Dean doesn’t know his birthday. “Are you really, Dean?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Dean looks away, to where a twenty-three year old from District 2 is slamming shots at the open bar. It’s nine in the morning. He wants to join her.

“Your failing liver,” the escort shrugs. “The Avox that you’ll take one from when yours gives out. You haven’t called or written to your family yet—not that you ever do—and at this point, you spend more time at the Capitol than at your home. The Opening Ceremony is tonight as well, and I know that the tributes this year were your friends.”

Dean swallows and stares at his empty plate. He’s full, but his stomach feels empty. His stomach roils and he regrets all the bacon he’d eaten. He’d barely tasted most of the food, and that wasn’t even because he’s physically incapable of tasting most sweet foods and some salty. He’d been so preoccupied.

Dean has a newfound sympathy for Avoxes. They must not taste anything they put in their mouths.  _ Well, I’m halfway there, _ Dean thinks morbidly,  _ might as well do something great so Naomi will cut out the rest _ .

But she wouldn’t cut out his tongue. She’d cut out Sam’s.

“You know I’m always here for you,” Castiel continues. “You know that, Dean, right?”

“Yes.”

_ Because you have to be. _

Dean stands abruptly. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Cas watches him go a little helplessly.

The restrooms in the Roadhouse are beautiful—at least, the men’s bathroom is; Dean doesn’t know about the women’s. The floor is made of pristine white tile and the entire place is well-lit. He gets to piss into a crystal urinal, which seems like a kind of metaphor he can’t quite work out. The stalls are black crystal, opaque, and he’s pretty sure the seats are made out of real gold. They’re also heated.

When Dean puts his hand under a sensor, soap comes out. It’s super cool. The first time Dean was here he’d messed with the sensors for hours.

He also activates the water with a sensor. Different faucets spit different temperature water. The coldest faucet is closest to the door, and the hottest is the farthest away from it. The communal sink is also crystal, faceted and completely clear.

There are also fluffy rags to dry his hands with. They sit in heated cubbies until they’re selected, and then dropped in a bin to be washed, and just by the door is a stand with breath mints in a matching crystal bowl.

It’s all very fancy.

Dean dries his hands off quietly when he hears someone sniff. He freezes. The person retches. It’s not coming from his room, which means it must be coming from the women’s room.

As he hears the woman sob again, he reacts without thinking. Dean darts into the women’s room before anyone notices him exit the men’s room. The women’s room looks the exact same as the men’s room apart from the lack of crystalline urinals. A woman with dark hair is retching into the communal sink.

Just now realizing that he’s in the women’s room and the crying woman might very well not want anyone to see her right now (but if that was the case, wouldn’t she go into a stall?), Dean clears his throat. “Uh… miss, are you all right?”

The woman raises her head and meets his gaze in the mirror. To his shock, it’s Eileen. He’d always thought of her as unflappable. Tougher than him, at the very least.

For a split second she scowls at Dean but then her expression crumbles and she shakes her head.

Dean really hadn’t expected to get this far. He doesn’t know what to do. It’s even worse when Eileen splashes her face with water and turns to face him, tears still leaking out of her eyes. “Do you know, uh…” she raises both her hands, fingers splayed, and jerks them away from her mouth twice. “I forgot the word for it. When your… food comes back up?”

“You vomited?” Dean supplies helpfully.

“Yes.” Eileen nods and her hand nods along with her. With a slight grunt, her back hits the wall.

“Are you sick?”

She nods her hand again and then, reconsidering, shakes her head. “You know what the… the pretty Victors have to do. I’m sure you’ve done it.” Her left hand shakes as it covers her face and she slides down the wall until her knees are to her chest.

Dean swallows, hard. He’s heard whispers about the admirers of Victors contacting Naomi, offering a lot of money for one night with them. Awkward, he sits criss-cross on the floor. “I…” he clears his throat. “I haven’t. Not yet, anyway.” He’s slept with girls before, but never as a Victor, and never when they’re paying Naomi for the experience.

Eileen snorts. “Really.”

“I think the public would see it as… improper after Jo,” Dean admits. “But I doubt her protection will last much longer.” He doesn’t feel anything when he says that, even though he knows he should feel dread and anger. He’s spent the last few years of his life having no control. This is just one more step, right?

“Then you’re lucky,” Eileen mutters, wiping the back of her mouth again. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“I’ve seen the rates,” she whispers. “Not many non-Career Victors live long after they win. They take their own lives. I know why. Maybe  _ she _ makes our lives this way because we’ve got the most reason to hate her and she doesn’t want us around for too long. But how do you do it? You seem fine.”

Dean laughs humorlessly.  _ “Fine?” _

“Yes,  _ fine _ ,” Eileen spits. “You’re still popular. You’re still attractive. And yet you haven’t had to do what the rest of us  _ have _ .” She scrambles to her feet, glaring at him.

“I lost my sister in that arena,” Dean hisses back, standing up as well. This is more comfortable; he rather prefers disliking Eileen to sitting on a bathroom floor with her, discussing contracted sex. “Every step I take is monitored. If I do one thing wrong I’ll lose my brother too.”

“You have the power to change things!” Eileen exclaims. “And you’re being selfish. You’re so locked in your own pity party you don’t even realize that this could all be different.” She spits a curse at him and shoves his shoulder on her way out.

Eileen thinks that Dean has the power to change things. But he’s a has-been, the Victor of a Games a few years ago, one not even interesting enough for people to want to spend the night with him. And if he tries anything, Sam will die.

Dean clenches his fists and leaves.


	4. Rugaru Mills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so technically I still posted on the right day.

_ then _

When he brushes his hair away from his forehead, his fingers are shaking. Dean focuses on the trembling digits and concentrates as much as he can to fix the problem, but it only makes the shaking worse.

He snaps his fists to his sides and breathes. In, out. In, out. Breathe in the good thoughts, Charlie told him, and breathe out the bad ones. In, safe; out, dead Jo. In, safe Sam; out, hurt Sam. In, Cas; out, Naomi. The shaking stops gradually as someone steps into his room.

“The mayor has already started his speech. Are you ready to go out?” Cas holds out another little box, the contents of which Dean can guess.

No. Dean would love to curl up on his bed and never move from underneath the heated blankets. Maybe, if he can’t do that, he can lock himself in the bathroom; it’s to his right and there’s nothing between himself and the entrance. In there he could shatter the mirror, find the largest, sharpest shard he can, and—

But of course he can’t do that. He can’t even bolt down a hallway of the Justice Building he’s currently in. He’d seen his surroundings while arriving, and everything for miles had been a cage. If it had been forests he could have run, if it was a city he could have run, but it is uniform, tall buildings surrounding factories. It makes the district feel like their whole lives revolve around masonry, which it probably does. It’s the most organized district for sure; no other has streets so meticulously square and regulated.

Dean’s tongue feels like it’s made of cotton when he responds affirmatively. With wooden fingers, he takes the box, opens it, and wants so badly to dash the earpiece to the ground that he shoves it into his ear with so much force it hurts. Maybe he’ll damage his eardrum or lobe or whatever the hell is in there so that he can’t hear what Naomi says.

Cas gives him a once-over and a wrinkle appears between his eyebrows but he says nothing else as he nods and steps aside for the Victor to walk. He stands close. Cas seems not to understand the concept of ‘personal space’ quite as well as others. It still makes Dean nervous.

_ It would only take him a step closer and a sharp object to my back. It would only take him one foot out to trip me then tackle me as I fall. It would only take two seconds to grip my head and wrench it to the side. It would only take— _

Dean lets out a sharp breath and stops walking, gesturing for Castiel to lead the way. The escort gives him a peculiar look but doesn’t argue. As he passes Dean, tension eases from his shoulders. He hadn’t even realized how stiffly he was holding himself.

If Dean had hated his suit last district, it’s nothing compared to this suit. Charlie had attached a note to its lapel with a drawn frowning face and the words ‘Sorry, it’s not my design but it’s out of my hands’. Considering the trend of unflattering, uncomfortable suits that looks to be starting, Dean hopes that none of the suits on the Victory trip are her designs. They just keep getting worse. He shudders to think about what his District 12 outfit will be.

Still, though, Dean would take the uncomfortable neck spike/collar thing any day over this cruel mockery. Not to mention that he will most likely scuff up this suit within seconds of putting it on.

The suit is perfectly white and stiff, not tailored to fit him so it simply looks like a box enclosing his body with various holes on its surface for his limbs to poke through. He’s not sure what the general effect is supposed to be. This isn’t even a bizarre clothing trend in the Capitol, nor had he seen anyone in this district wearing a suit like this whilst arriving. He has a feeling that Naomi just wants to see him twitch.

Dean holds himself uncomfortably, stiff, but he doesn’t twitch. He has a feeling this clothing will crack.

“Relax,” Castiel says right into Dean’s ear, his breath wafting over his neck and making goosebumps appear. Dean stops clenching his fists so hard, having forgotten about the notecards in his left hand.

When Dean sees the escort reach out for him out of the corner of his eye, he flinches. Both men scowl and Cas’s fingers hesitate in midair, slightly wavering but not nearly as much as Dean’s were.

Rationally, Dean knows that Cas has no reason to hit him. He clenches his jaw and tilts his chin up and to the right slightly, a goading motion to anyone else, but Cas simply brushes a stray strand of hair off of his forehead. To Dean’s relief, no more words are spoken. He starts to walk, remembering the way in. At least the suit isn’t tailored, or Dean might have to waddle in order to keep the fabric from splintering with movement. At least he hasn’t been reduced to that level of humiliation…  _ yet. _

His hasty exit from District 2’s Justice building, Dean insists, is not a retreat nor is he fleeing. He just has a speech to say. He just has to look into the eyes of the families of the girl he’d murdered and the boy he’d wanted, irrationally, to be friends with.

Easy peasy.

The sun is blinding, the crowd deafening— _ no. _

The sun may be blinding, but the crowd is a faint murmur at best.

_ Not in the arena, _ Dean reminds himself, willing his erratically beating heart to stop feeling like it’s jumping out of his chest.  _ I’m safe. _

He remembers the tip Charlie told him: breathe in good thoughts and breathe out bad thoughts. In, safe; out, the arena. He closes his eyes before pasting a smile on his face and lifting his arm up in an attempt at a happy wave.

_ How is it not obvious, _ Dean wonders,  _ how pathetic I really feel? _ How had previous Victors managed this? Had they simply not cared about any of their opponents? Is Dean truly the odd one out in every aspect of his world?

Unlike District 1’s glittering, contoured Justice Building, District 2 boasts a monstrous grey stone castle. The inside is as comfortable as they could possibly make it, but the fact remains that District 2’s masonry focuses on durability, sturdiness, and foundations, not glitter and looks. The place is full of hard lines and corners, as well as a drafty cold only brought on by the absence of soft furniture. Dean appreciates the place’s integrity of staying true to itself, at least, as well as the blank expressions on both the tributes’ families’ faces and the general crowd. At most, he can see grudging admiration for a Victor, as is common among Career districts. At worst, he sees cool disinterest in the eyes of his audience today.

_ No exits, no exits, no exits, _ his brain chants, even as Dean wills it to quiet down. The audience spans all the way around the circular, raised stage, and Peacekeepers flank his back. They may be there to show the support the Capitol has for Dean, or the strength of the Capitol, or really anything to do with propaganda, but they’re also there to remind Dean just where he is.

A cage with no escapes.

There is no adult standing among a small group of children on the right side of the stage where tributes’ families go. The girls all have Constance Welsh’s long black hair, slightly waving in the wind. The males in the family all have faces similar to hers and short, dark hair. The oldest-looking one of the group, a boy with a buzzcut and a harsher jawline than the rest of his siblings, crosses his arms and narrows his eyes slightly at Dean. Somehow, Dean feels that the look isn’t one of abject hatred.

Not that it matters, anyway. Dean already hates himself enough for the whole family, and some family friends, too, if they feel like joining in. Hell, who cares, how about the whole district?

Seeing those kids drives a spike into his heart. Constance had been the oldest, he can tell, which means they’re all under 18. All children. Without parents and now, without their leader. Her second-in-command will be in for a rude awakening. Dean would know. He’s John’s second-in-command, and the amount of secrets it takes to have a successful adult life in the districts is astonishing. Like,  _ these bruises are from the ropes at work _ and  _ I’m really not hungry _ and  _ of course I have no idea who took that man’s bread, sir. _

Dean wishes them the best of luck mentally and spares a glance at the left side of the stage. One person stands to represent Rugaru; an old lady with white hair and a straight back. Her face is stone as she watches Dean. Though he wasn’t the one to kill Rugaru, he doesn’t get the feeling she likes him at all.

Not that he needs her to like him. Not that  _ anyone _ likes Dean very much nowadays.

It would just be nice to not be hated by at least  _ someone _ .

_ Cas, _ his brain whispers and Dean glances instinctively over to where his escort has come to stand proudly. How he can bear the hateful glances of those that lose their families to the Games, Dean will never know. Hell, he’d been one of the people to glare at Cas and blame him for the Games because it was easier to see an enemy that he could belittle rather than one without weaknesses.

Dean pulls a smile to his face and waves out at the crowd. A cheer rises from its heart, and the old woman standing for Rugaru doesn’t even twitch. Uncomfortable, Dean looks back at Constance’s family. The smallest girl, who looks to be a little younger than Sam, wears an outfit of all white, staring steadily at him. Though she doesn’t twitch, she might as well have gestured to her own outfit and then at Dean’s.

Dean chokes, loudly, into the microphone. The sound bounces off the surrounding buildings, turning into an echo that sounds more like a gag.

The cheers die quicker than they’d come and a million curious eyes look up at Dean, but his are still locked with the young girl’s. “I’m…” he clears his throat. “I’m so sorry,” he blurts and blinks with surprise. He’d meant to say some drivel about being honored.

_ “What are you saying?” _ Naomi hisses into his ear. It makes Dean wince.

“For your loss,” Dean clarifies, trying to rectify the situation but only digging himself a deeper hole. And knowing he’s digging, too. He just can’t seem to make himself stop. “Constance and Rugaru were fine tributes. I know they won’t be forgotten. I didn’t really want to fight Constance—” and he says this with a degree of pleading, still unable to look away from the smaller version of Constance. The crowd shifts, mumbling under their breath, and heat starts to build under Dean’s armpits. “I know you will miss her. And I shared a kill with Rugaru. We might have been friends if—”

_ “Shut up _ about your competitors,” the president snarls. “You’re grateful to the Capitol.” She utters an exasperated sigh into the earpiece, a terribly human motion that makes Dean’s stomach roil.

“I am so grateful to the Capitol,” Dean parrots woodenly, “for the great comfort I’ve had since becoming Victor as I grieve the loss of my district partner. I…” words fail him and Dean falters, licking his lips nervously. He finds the strength to look away from the small Constance—or rather, he loses the strength necessary to continue eye contact. One glance at Castiel is all it takes for the escort to step up and speak into the microphone.

“We are always grateful to the support that District 2 shows for Victors and the Capitol. A small portion of a year’s worth of Mr. Winchester’s Victor earnings will be offered to the families of this year’s tributes. As you can see, Mr. Winchester still struggles with the loss of his district partner—” a small sigh issues from the crowd, primarily from the females, “—but nevertheless, the honor of becoming a Victor is not lost on him and he shall strive to uphold Haven’s upright reputation for the rest of his life and his career as a mentor. Thank you.”

A few people bring their hands together in hesitant applause, the scattered sounds ringing like gunshots, and a few Peacekeepers surrounding the crowd goad the audience until the cacophony follows Dean as he escapes back into the Justice Building, cursing himself and grudgingly admiring Castiel at the same time.

“How’d you get so good at that, Cas?”

Without a glance backwards, the escort replies, “Years of practice.” The harsh tone of his voice sobers Dean and he remains silent until the two men stand in front of the door to Dean’s private quarters. Then and only then does Cas turn to look at Dean. He doesn’t have an earpiece in either of his ears, which means he stepped up without prompting from Naomi and saved the speech using only his own improvisation and quick wits.

In the sparsely lit hall, Dean can make out the hint of grey underneath the escort’s eyes and a shadow of scruff on his cheeks. Or is it simply a shadow?

“I… I’m sorry,” Cas says slowly. “She’ll want to speak to you alone.”

Dean doesn’t need to ask what he means. He gulps but opens the door and steps inside. The door closes with a soft  _ click _ .

It can’t be worse than facing John when he stinks of spirits, right?

Every muscle in Dean’s body clenches at the onslaught of a terrible white-hot pain through his whole body and his jaw convulses, bringing teeth together so quickly he bites off the tip of his tongue. He would feel the pain, and taste the blood filling up his mouth, if his senses weren’t already so consumed. He’s burning up right this very second, he’s crumbling to ash, he’s floating away. Like dandelion fluff. Like a feather. In a million tiny pieces.

Fire ants race up and down his arms and legs, biting through his skin and racing through his veins until there’s no part of Dean’s body that isn’t stinging, not even his sore vocal cords or toes.

And then the ants shrivel up and die, still running through his veins but unnoticeable.

Everything’s so bright and shiny. The floor is very cool and so soft. It’s good. Even if District 2 can’t make soft walls, at least they can make soft floors. It’s good to have a soft floor.

His body eases up around the time Dean realizes his forehead is pressed to the stone floor and his mouth is filled with coppery liquid. The floor is not, in fact, soft. It’s rather hard and his head pounds like someone’s inside trying to get out. On the other hand, at least he isn’t burning up or in a million tiny pieces. Also, he’s in desperate need of oxygen.

Weakly, he turns his head and sputters, trying to spit out blood and suck air into aching lungs at the same time. He swallows a little bit of blood and coughs some more, creating a nice puddle on the floor. Among the blood is a small piece of tongue, and that is the straw that breaks the camel’s back—or, in this case, Dean’s already-almost-always-upset stomach. Up comes the meager breakfast Castiel had forced up on him. It’s not a pretty vomit, either; he hacks and chokes around the chunks and the smell of it makes him gag.

Dean moans and rolls over onto his back. “What the  _ fuck _ was that?” he garbles around a mouth already filling up with blood again and a tongue so tender it brings tears to his eyes. None of that compares to the mere memory of the pain so overwhelming he’d hardly been able to process it. It comes out as, “Wab he fub wuh tha?” so he spits again. Not all of the blood makes it to the ground; a few drops trickle down the side of his face. He can’t even find it in himself to care.

He’d been wrong; it was so much worse than anything John’s ever done.

He winces when the television in the room turns on remotely. The sound of static fills the room for a moment, prompting the person trying to break out of Dean’s head via his forehead to renew his efforts again.

Dean moans in protest and screws up his eyes. The static cuts off abruptly. It’s too abrupt, so Dean raises his head a little bit. He’s got a perfect view of the expensive earpiece lying in a pool of blood. And beyond that is the TV sporting a blank screen.

But Dean knows Capitol technology doesn’t glitch.

“Urngh,” is his main protest as he sits up, quickly followed by, “Ngurgh.” Then he spits on the ground again. When he wipes his mouth, the back of his hand comes away red. If he had anything left in his stomach to spit up, he just might. He’s not this queasy normally, but after that experience Dean’s pretty sure he has a right to be sensitive.

He’d been right. The suit did crack. His right cuff is barely hanging on and the entirety of what used to cover his left knee is powder by the largest pile of blood. You know, the one with the earpiece and tongue swimming around like tadpoles in a pond. If he was more lucid, Dean would wonder about the mechanics of wearing a plaster suit.

The room tilts around Dean and he stumbles forward, throwing out an arm to the dresser to stabilize himself. The TV wobbles dangerously. He stares at the earpiece and tongue until they stop swimming in blood, and only then does he examine the TV further. When white words appear on the dark screen, Dean blinks, shakes his head, and rubs his eyes. They still don’t disappear, so he reads what they say.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DEVIATE FROM THE SCRIPT, blinks across the screen in barely enough time for him to read it. There’s no doubt as to who typed it.

So that was a threat carried through. A punishment? “But… how?” Dean spits at the ground again, still wincing against the light and at the mere possibility that the pain might start again. The words bring fresh tears to his eyes.

YOUR TRACKER HAS MANY USES, the screen first reads, followed by, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT CUTTING IT OUT.

Dean still looks at his left forearm. The dark lump is barely visible but he imagines that he can feel it throbbing under his skin. Like a worm or a parasite that’s found his body a suitable habitat. “But wha’ was ’a’? How’d a li’l tracker—”  _ hurt me that bad? _

20 MILLIAMPS OF VOLTAGE SENT THROUGH YOUR ENTIRE BODY. Dean can see the smirk behind those words. AMPLIFIED THROUGH NANOBOTS. He doesn’t know the definite measure of that or what nanobots are, but he knows enough—from working at the dam—that she’s talking about electricity. He’s seen people die from accidentally brushing up against wires. Their bodies clamp up and there’s nothing anyone can do as their heart gives out. Only when they fall to the ground does anyone step in, but by then their hearts are too damaged to ever start again. And if there’s water on the ground, then everyone’s evacuated.

Electricity is dangerous. That’s why Dean works with the ropes.

He swallows and runs a hand through his hair.

THERE IS NO ESCAPE FROM THE CAPITOL.

And on that note, Dean’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he crumples.

* * *

_ now _

“I’m coming tonight, you know.”

Dean looks to his right, where Charlie is politely pretending not to notice the death grip he has on the elevator’s rail. They keep going higher and higher, where the air is thinner and the ground hurts more if you fall. Where there’s no escapes. Where the only way out is stairs and the elevator.

Holding onto the rail wouldn’t help if the elevator were to suddenly plummet several stories, but he likes to pretend it does.

Dean doesn’t like heights.

“To the party,” she clarifies. “Kara and I are going.”

His face scrunches with confusion. “What party?”

“The one that was announced almost the second you got back to the Capitol. You know, at your house?”

Dean shrugs. He’d suspected one would be announced. A general rule of thumb when concerning parties is to wait until six o’clock and if there isn’t a crowd outside his house, he gets to have a quiet night in—that is, drown his sorrows in alcohol. If there is a crowd, he opens the doors and drowns his sorrows in alcohol while surrounded by screaming people.

“Did you not know?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Charlie, I’m not exactly the one organizing these events.” He says that through gritted teeth. Is the air getting thinner now? Is that why he can’t breathe?

The tension melts from Dean’s body as the elevator doors open with a soft ding and he surges to get out but Charlie’s soft hand grabs his and stops him in his tracks.

“Dean, you’re all right, though, right?” Her soft eyes search his. “Like, you don’t miss Sam and Jo that much, right?” It seems wrong in some way that she uses Jo’s nickname. They weren’t close.

Dean swallows, opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. He shuts it after a pause just short enough it’s not awkward, gently so he doesn’t bite off more of his tongue. Charlie’s eyes still look back and forth between his, too much weight in the creases at their corners. She doesn’t seem to find what she’s looking for, or maybe she finds something she hadn’t wanted to see, because her gaze drops and she lets go of his hand.

Dean sprints out of the elevator, gasping. The absence of Sam and Jo is a hole in his chest every day and poses a constant threat of tears. But Naomi would love to see him cry, so he hasn’t. Not once in three years. Now his head pounds and his eyes burn. And why? An innocent question posed by someone he really should still hate?

_ Weak, _ Dean curses himself.  _ Weak and pathetic. _

Sam’s still alive. Sam’s still alive. Sam’s still alive.

The mantra repeats in his head until he can’t hear anything. Sam’s still alive. Sam’s still alive. Why is he panicking?

At some point Dean realizes he’s sitting on the ground and Charlie put his head between his knees.

“Dean!” she cries, eyes wide. “Dean, listen to me, okay? You’re all right.”

His head hurts, his heart pounds, and his eyes burn. He’s riddled with scars—part of his tongue is missing, for God’s sake—and it’s all too overwhelming. “Ge’ ’e  _ hell _ away from me!” Dean snarls wetly, almost shoving her away but John’s hands aren’t attached to his arms (yet). His head spins when he stands up, but he knows where the bathroom is on this floor well enough, and Charlie knows better than to follow him as he staggers away.

Cas finds him in the bathroom some time later, sitting on the floor with his back propped against the wall, eyes fixed resolutely on the door. Dean’s hands are pink and wet and so is his face. He’d lost the energy necessary to turn off the water so the sink is still on, and its heat is starting to fog up the mirror.

The sight of one more person connected to Naomi is almost too much. Dean closes his eyes.

He hears Cas turn off the water. After that is the soft sound of clothes rustling before Cas sighs as he sits next to Dean.

“Are they here yet?” Dean utters, cracking his eyes open again. He’s an even worse mentor than Bobby. At least Bobby tried. He could handle the pressure. He had connections. Dean’s just weak. He’s a public figure for the Capitol.

“Nearly,” Cas replies. He takes one of Dean’s hands. Dean tenses, ready to rip it away if Cas wants to do something chick-flicky like hold it, but Cas gently dries both his hands and then his face with a fluffy white washcloth Dean didn’t realize he had. He doesn’t ask if Dean wants to talk about it, which he appreciates. Cas’s stoic silence is a nice break from the constant chatter of the rest of the Capitol. And Dean doesn’t even know what he’d talk about. He doesn’t know what that outburst was in front of Charlie. He doesn’t know why that simple question made him want to cry. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t gotten over Jo’s death after three years. He doesn’t know why Naomi won’t let him live in District 5 peacefully.

“I hope you know,” Cas eventually says, “I’ve seen it all before. You’re not the first person to feel like this.”

Dean closes his eyes again and lets his head loll against the wall. He could fall asleep like this. He hasn’t slept in two days. Now seems like a good time to break the streak. “Cas, you should come to my party tonight.”

“What?”

“I’m having a party tonight, according to Charlie. You should come.”

Cas doesn’t reply for a long time. “Perhaps I will.” He sounds critical and like he doesn’t believe that he really will, but it’s not a no. And really, Dean would love to have one more sane person in his house. Especially Cas.

“Is it bad,” Dean whispers, “if I want to go home right now?” His voice cracks. “I don’t want to mentor Anna and Dock. I just want them to die in the Bloodbath so I can go home to Sam.”

In a move that surprises both men, Cas delicately rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. He’s so close that Dean can feel it in his bones when Cas talks. He should pull away, remembering the Victory Tour incident, but he can’t. “I think the burden you’re under is a great stress, Dean. I wouldn’t fault you for wishing for a rest.”

“Dad would call it selfish,” Dean mumbles.

“John was never a mentor,” Cas counters. “He was lucky in that regard. And John was never called the Flaming Sword or Houndkiller.”

“Houndkiller?” Dean barks out a laugh. “They flatter me. That’s the sort of name you give to a hero in a story.”

Cas checks his watch. “They’ve arrived. Come on.” He stands fluidly and pulls Dean up. Before Dean can let go of his hand, Cas pulls him into a hug. It makes Dean want to cry again, but he’d never give Naomi the satisfaction.

He sits with a frozen smile on his face, in a sleek black suit. As if watching the Opening Ceremony provides him with so much pleasure.

There is no way out. There are too many Peacekeepers on every side, and glass too thick to break through if he wanted to commit a suicide swan dive, which he doesn’t particularly want to do. Naomi would make the long way down much too painful.

Besides, Dean sits behind and to the right of Naomi, where only the most esteemed— _ most dangerous, most unpredictable, most powerful _ —Gamemakers, escorts, and tributes may sit. Dean had seen Gabriel and Kevin while entering. The latter looks nervous, but he always does. There is also a tall muscular Victor with close-cropped blonde hair from District 1 and a slender woman with stick-straight pink hair. Sitting directly next to the president is a woman with white lipstick that matches the white streaks in her dark hair.

And, of course, Dean had seen Naomi. He’d walked right past her. That despicable red hair is so close, even now as he sits down. Dean could lunge and wrap his hands around her throat. He might even be able to snap her neck. If the implant in his arm wasn’t there he’d do it. If there weren’t so many Peacekeepers he’d do it.

Cas would stop him, Castiel who sits on Dean’s left. Cas would stop him from diving. Cas would stop him from killing Naomi. Because Castiel cannot be trusted, because he is the Capitol’s bitch, because he doesn’t really care for Dean, he was just ordered to act like it, and Dean  _ knows _ that; he  _ knows _ it, but he can’t  _ not _ like Cas.

He sits, frozen, smiling, as the camera pans to him again and again, to renewed cheers from the audience each time. He sits, frozen, when Anna Milton and Dock Benton roll out on their chariot and the audience cheers at their beautiful outfits.

Anna wears a spectacular sparkling blue dress designed to look like water and Dock wears a suit in a slightly darker shade. They look beautiful. For a moment Dean can see blood stains on Anna’s front and that Dock’s head is on the wrong way. He blinks and the violence is back in the future where it belongs.

They most definitely do not hold hands.

Dean’s hands curl into fists on his seat’s armrest but his smile doesn’t falter.


	5. Wendy Igo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this is late. And I got reviews reminding me to update. And I am sorry, but I have no excuses. Just know I did this all to annoy Lansfics7 :))). Just kidding, she was the one who reminded me to update (because she is my alarm system for this story) at 11:00 PM on monday!!! I was in bed. I was asleep! And then I was too lazy. I apologize. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and review, because they remind me to update and keep me writing :)). I hope this chapter cheers you all up because Chuck knows the world is a little fucked.

_ now _

Dean wakes up to an earthquake. His eyes fly open, arms already protecting his face from falling rocks. He expects to see a leafy canopy or a gray stone ceiling, but he’s met with a smooth white ceiling.

“He has important engagements,” someone says to his right in a hushed voice.

Dean cranes his neck up. Castiel stands in the doorway to his bedroom as someone climbs out of the bed. Dean frowns. Why was someone in his bed?

The person stands up, fully naked. Castiel’s eyes remain firmly fixed on the wall as the night—part of it, anyway—reveals itself to Dean as he looks the figure up and down once, twice, and a third time for good measure. A girl—attractive, from what little he can see of her—went to bed with him. It’s a shame he can’t remember anything from last night. Trying to recall sends a bolt of pain through his head and Dean groans.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says, sounding amused.

“Thank you, Mr. Winchester!” the girl chirps as she scampers out of the room with her shirt on but pants bundled in her arms.

Dean grunts to acknowledge her and rubs his eyes. “Cas, what are you doing here?”

“Cleaning,” the escort brusquely replies. “You could certainly use the help.”

“Did you ever drop by last night?” Dean whispers, so as not to aggravate his headache. Maybe Cas will be able to help him piece together exactly what happened last night. He rolls out of bed as the escort beckons him.

Cas purses his lips and shakes his head. Dean tries not to let the disappointment show on his face.

Out in the hallway are bodies, all in various states of undress.

“They’re still alive, right?” Dean asks anxiously when Cas bends to check on the two that have the most clothes on. It’s still not much.

“Of course. They are merely unconscious.” Cas shakes the shoulder of a boy who’d thought orange was a great color scheme for his entire outfit. “Come on. Time to leave.”

Dean kicks at a broken piece of glass on the ground. Surely when he leaves for mentoring, Avoxes will swarm the place and it’ll be spotless once he’s back. Dean would feel guilty if he didn’t know that cleaning is a better job than some of the other duties they’re forced to undertake.

Today’s destruction is more extensive than it normally is. Dean can see holes in the wall and broken glass in this hallway alone. In the kitchen, puddles of wine, alcohol, and broken bottles litter the ground. The refrigerator is open and pulled away from the wall. The table is on its side.

Dean can’t help but laugh. If he didn’t laugh he’d be furious. “Seems you missed a pretty crazy party, Cas.”

Cas touches the counter and his fingers come back white with powder. “I don’t think it was exactly my type of party, if you’ll believe it.”

“Oh, that I can believe,” Dean snorts. The last thing he could imagine is Cas tipsy or high. Well, he can imagine it. Cas drinking John’s liquors, getting loud, getting clumsy, speaking louder and louder—

“Dean.”

Dean flinches away from the hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t realized that his heart had started to race and his breathing quickened.

“Are you all right?” Cas squints at Dean suspiciously.

“Never better, Cas,” Dean lies, forcing a smile.

His escort doesn’t look the least bit reassured, even when Dean exaggerates his smile, even though it makes his head pound that much more.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas starts, sounding uncomfortable for the first time since Dean’s known him.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not wearing any pants. Or…” Cas’s voice trails off and he frowns for a moment, contemplating Dean’s pink pantie-clad crotch.

Dean looks down and swears. Vehemently. He has no recollection whatsoever of last night, but with a sinking feeling in his stomach can guess that the girl—whoever she was—left with a pair of his own underwear.

“You should go change,” Cas suggests placidly. He jerks his head in the direction of the foyer. “I’ll get them all out.”

Dean backs away, hands in front of his private area as if Cas hadn’t already been given ample opportunity to see anything he wanted. Thankfully he’s a decent human being.

Dean must be really out of it to not have noticed the odd clothing. Indeed, he’d been so occupied by his aching head that he hadn’t noticed the panties or his very own lack of a shirt, which evidently hadn’t bothered Cas as much as the panties.

Though Dean will swear on his life that he threw the panties away, they somehow make their way to the very bottom of his underwear drawer where they’re forgotten, as the coming days won’t give him a lot of time to think about pink panties.

By the time Dean’s armored himself in a blue flannel and long pants, Cas has everyone out of the house. He’s very efficient.

Dean rolls the sleeves of his flannel up as he enters the kitchen so he doesn’t have to look Cas in the eyes right away. “Not a word,” he warns. “Not a word.”

“Not a word about what?” Cas smiles over his shoulder as Dean settles at the righted table.

“That’s the right answer,” Dean grunts, absently rubbing at his left forearm, then wincing when the skin smarts.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Hmm?” Dean looks up guiltily, already pulling his sleeve down to hide the injury. “It’s fine. It’s nothing—”

Cas snorts. “The thing I’m starting to learn about you, Dean, is that it’s never fine or nothing.”

“Well, what’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks indignantly.

“What do you think it means?” Cas snaps. “You are a child, Dean Winchester, and you’re carrying around much more than you should but you won’t share any of your burden, and that’s what  _ makes _ you a child!”

“I’m not a child!” Dean protests even as his stomach sinks. This is it; the moment when Cas realizes that he’s more trouble than he’s worth because he’s really not worth anything. “I’m nineteen. You’re only a year older than me!”

“I’m twenty-one!” Cas exclaims. “We are one year and nine months apart! And that’s not the point—!” but both men already know the argument’s over when he says that. Dean starts to count on his fingers nine months from January.

“You were born in October?” Dean asks softly. Knowing his birthday just makes him that much more human.

With a stiff nod, Cas elaborates, “It was a Thursday. My mother died and my father was never really the same after that, or so Gabriel tells me. Then when the Peacekeepers went to our exams and Gabriel and I scored well, he let them…”

“What?”

“I was born in District 1,” Castiel says slowly and baldly. “I was never a Career; I was too smart for that—” and a faint tinge of pride enters his tone when he says, “I scored top of my class in the yearly exams. It was a record, so they came to take me. My father didn’t care much.”

Dean looks at him for a long time. Cas smooths out the sleeves of his trenchcoat and turns back around. Dean finally smells that he’s cooking breakfast.

Cas jumps when Dean curses. “What?”

“You—Dean points at Cas, sputtering indignantly. “You had a  _ life _ ! You were—District 1? They  _ took _ you?”

“I barely remember the district,” Cas replies. “I was eleven.”

Dean buries his face in his hands and groans.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m good.” Dean waves a hand at him weakly. “It’s just—”

“It’s just not fair,” the escort says darkly. “But we don’t make the rules. We just need to play the game as best we can.” It’s more or less what Dean’s been telling himself, John, and Sam for years, but it still doesn’t sit well with him. Not coming out of Cas’s mouth. Not coming out of his mouth. Not coming out of anyone’s mouth. Adrenaline rushes through Dean and he’s struck with the urge to burst into Naomi’s office and shoot her in the face.

Cas sets a plate of bacon in front of Dean. He can smell how delicious it should taste, but he won’t be able to taste all of it. It’s a goddamn travesty.

“Dean, do you know what inflation is?” the escort asks suddenly.

“Uh… no.”

“It is when everyone in a community gets so much money that the money starts to lose value.”

“Okay,” Dean says slowly.

“If, for example, everyone in a community were to get, say, a precious jewel shaped like a flower, the jewel would promptly lose its value because it would not be in demand.”

Dean’s stomach drops but he keeps his voice even when he says, “All right. But what if most members of that community are starving?”

“Hypothetically helping everyone in a community by giving out jewels isn’t really helping,” Cas retorts. “It keeps the social status the same.”

Dean wants to ask how the escort knows what he’s been doing and how else Dean’s supposed to do anything, because even as a Victor he’s got almost no power.

Then his escort sets three painkillers and a cup of coffee in front of him and Dean’s mood improves tremendously. He knocks the painkillers back gratefully and inhales deeply to smell the bacon one more time. Sam had told him sometime that smell is a big part of taste. At least Naomi hasn’t found a way to take away that sensation. Almost reluctantly, Dean takes his first bite of food. Maybe it’s his imagination, but the food lacks most of its flavor even though the doctors told him he still has a majority of his salty taste buds.

Cas sets a small tower of slightly-burnt pancakes next to the bacon and Dean’s mouth falls open.

Dean latches onto the change in conversation topic gratefully. “I didn’t know you could cook!” Just the sight of the gorgeous breakfast food makes his mouth water. He won’t be able to taste them very well, but eating them still gives him a sense of comfort. Especially if they’re warm. And sometimes the memories of what they used to taste like can trick him into thinking he can taste them.

Besides, the loss of pancake tasting is a lot less devastating than the loss of pie tasting.

“I had to.” At first Dean thinks it’s the gateway into more information about Cas’s childhood, but the escort adds playfully, “I have to tempt you with food so you forget about alcohol.”

Dean yawns so hard his jaw cracks. His eyelids feel heavier and heavier with each bite of crispy (but still good) pancake. Before he’s even finished his breakfast, his head hits the heavy wooden table with a thunk that makes Cas wince but doesn’t stir Dean. He lets out a loud snore.

Cas smiles wistfully.

Dean would have woken up gradually had he not snorted. He scares himself so badly that he jumps up, heart racing, right hand going to his heart.

“Good morning,” Cas says casually. It takes Dean a second to focus on him. “I was just about to wake you up. It’s almost time for mentoring.”

Dean blinks and rubs his eyes. To cover up his right hand’s obvious movement, he awkwardly reaches up to the amulet hanging around his neck and rubs the string between two fingers.

Cas’s usual trenchcoat has been discarded. He’s sitting in the chair across Dean, feet kicked up on the table as he casually reads a book. Most important is that the white button-up shirt he’s wearing is thin and tighter than Dean would have thought Cas would like.

Dean looks away hastily, swallowing when his mouth goes dry. He didn’t know that the escort is so fit. He always looks like a box when wearing his trenchcoat.

The house looks a lot better than he remembers it being. “Did you…”

“I only cleaned up a little bit,” the escort says lightly. “Put furniture back where it’s supposed to go, cleaned up the powders and spills on the ground. I hope you don’t mind the way I organized your bookshelf.” Dean doubts he will; he hadn’t even known he had a bookshelf. He makes a mental note to find where it is later. “The Avoxes can repair or replace everything that was damaged.”

The kitchen cabinets aren’t hanging open anymore and the broken china shards have been swept away. There aren’t any wine or alcohol puddles on the floor, either. Unfortunately, Dean’s entire alcohol shelf is empty. They’d either been drunk or spilled. Thinking about that good alcohol wasted irks Dean. The thought of selfish beetles drinking his whiskey makes his fists clench involuntarily; they probably didn’t appreciate it as much as it deserved. The Avoxes better refill his stock.

“Thanks,” Dean says hoarsely. “That’s really… that’s nice of you, Cas.”

“I had nothing better to do.” The escort pins him with a curiously scolding look. “You’d fallen asleep.”

Dean blushes.

“Brush your teeth,” Cas orders after a moment. “Wash your face. Drink one more glass of water. Then we will go.”

“You’re taking me there?”

“I am their escort, after all. And yours. Besides, today we will be teaching etiquette and interview strategy.”

“I feel bad for them, then,” Dean says simply. “Learning etiquette with you was a nightmare. And I have no idea what advice to give them. Jo and I was a fluke and I didn’t even come up with the plan. That was all her. Jo could do the strategy. I’m just the grunt.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You knew them both in school, correct?”

“Yeah. Anna’s got a stick up her ass but she’s nice enough and Dock’s a real asshole.” For some reason, Dean can’t meet Cas’s eyes when he talks about Anna. She was a frequent companion behind the slag heap, something they never spoke about in the light of day. She also helped Dean pass his classes—if letting Dean cheat off her counts as helping. She and Jo never got along, which was part of the reason they didn’t talk about the slag heap.

Cas’s eyes narrow at Dean’s silence. Dean shifts his weight between his left and right feet before nodding and turning back around to brush his teeth.

“Was I really that much of a terror to learn etiquette with?”

Dean bursts out laughing.

* * *

“Hey, Winchester!”

Sam turns around. Before the Games, he might have been a little more nervous about someone calling his name, but more often than not, the person was calling for Dean. If they weren’t, then that meant Dean wasn’t at school or in sight and Sam was going to get picked on. It didn’t happen often; Dean never skipped often enough for the bullying to be a pattern. But for three years nobody has messed with the Houndkiller’s little brother. And now, when he stops in the middle of a crowded hallway, the flow of students parts around him.

A girl, Amy Pond, waves frantically at him as she pushes through the crowd. “Hey, Winchester,” she repeats a little breathlessly once she’s reached him. “Mind helpin’ me study for the history essay?”

“Sure,” Sam agrees, a bright smile cutting his face. He’d had a crush on Amy upon seeing her for maybe a week before they actually started talking and Sam realized Amy was a little too much like his brother. Though she’s not loud, she is sullen, and speaks of her mother the same way Dean speaks of John. She’s as reclusive as Dean is, though the same might be said of Sam. Now they’re just friends, but not close ones, as Amy’s allowed outside—apart from school—about as much as Sam.

“Cool!” Amy stands there, smiling like a doofus at Sam, for another few seconds before someone bumps into her. Shocked back into motion, she grabs Sam’s arm. “Ah—come on. You have this lunch, right?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be walking to the cafeteria if I didn’t,” Sam shot back.

“Sweet. So, I can never remember the order of the Presidents, you know? There’s just so many of them.”

“Naomi’s only our seventh President,” Sam reminds her. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how young the nation of Haven is, though the underwhelming number of Presidents they’ve had so far is attributed to their lifelong term. “The essay’s on how current Haven has changed from when it started, remember?”

“The Games,” Amy mutters, a little more subdued, and Sam shrugs.

“Sure. That was during president six, um…” he wracks his brain, trying furiously to remember as the pair walks into the cafeteria and sits down.

“We had Chuck, then Michael, Raphael,” Amy counts off on her fingers, “and then Hannah, the first female President. After that was Abbadon, then Metatron, the founder of the Games, and finally Naomi.”

Sam opens up his lunchbox, prepared to see it empty like it is whenever John has disappeared, and is pleasantly surprised to see that he has a sandwich packed as well as a bottle of water, a bag of baby carrots, and a bag of chips.

_ Oh yeah, _ he recalls,  _ Bobby’s staying over. _ The old man had just invited himself in, assuring Sam that his father would be fine with it in the process. Apparently the old drunk had managed to remember to pack his lunch. And he’d actually packed healthy stuff.

“Another way we’ve changed is the Career districts,” he points out. “Back then District 4 wasn’t a Career district, and people today still disagree over whether it is or not. And the districts are a lot more isolated now.” Something inside of Sam goes cold as he says that out loud. “In the beginning… they used to correspond and there weren’t so many… trees between us.”

Amy jots that down in her notebook and Sam frowns down at the table.

“And the Games were supposed to be temporary, right?” Amy asks. Sam lets out a strangled noise that might be an agreement. “A punishment for the attempted rebellion.”

“We don’t know that they’re not,” Sam says optimistically. “Maybe they’ll end after the 100th Games.” Even he can tell the hope is a foolish one.

Amy snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“Other differences,” Sam says quickly. “District 1 used to be manufacturing like District 2 and the training center for Peacekeepers. Under Raphael, District 1 changed to luxury and the Peacekeeping center switched to District 2.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Draisel covered that in class and it’s pretty much the only thing I remember.” Amy frowns at her notes. “I’m going to fail.”

“No, you’re not.” Sam nudges her arm with his elbow. “I’ll help you study. We won’t stop until you’re reciting Haven history in your sleep.”

Someone sets a lunch tray down at Sam’s elbow and he jumps.

“Hey, Winchester,” a bigger ninth-grader greets.

“Uh…”

With a clatter, another boy and a girl set down their trays. They all greet Sam by calling him Winchester, and the girl greets Amy too.

Sam scans their faces. It’s been so long, but he’s pretty sure the palest boy used to steal his lunches in first grade. The other two have said hello to Sam in the hallways, but he always wrote them off as probably making fun of him. The British siblings have always kept to themselves except for when they’re making fun of other people. Other people make fun of them, too, but only behind their backs; the boys both wrestle and are bulkier than just about every other boy at school. That keeps underclassmen quiet, even if the siblings all insist on being called by their middle names. Having a middle name is eccentric enough.

Both boys are a grade lower than their sister. They insist they weren’t held back as children, even if both are growing facial hair before anyone else in their grade, and that their sister skipped fifth grade. Toni Bevelle British must be a genius if she garnered enough attention in order to jump a grade in District 5’s massively neglected education system. Even Men Of Letters—the richest school in District 5 because it’s closest to Victor Village—is lacking in every department.

_ Well, I went this long without being harassed, _ Sam thinks sourly.  _ I guess Dean’s protection can only go so far. _

“What do you want, Arthur?” Amy asks, glaring at the first boy even though he has six inches and a hundred pounds on her.

The tallest of the triplets raises a single eyebrow at her and corrects through gritted teeth, “Ketch.”

Sam hides a grin behind his hand. Dean called him Ketchup all the time, loudly, and usually within earshot of the boy just to get on his nerves.

“We just wanted to have lunch,” Mick Davies British says, a little too loud, and he opens up his tin lunchbox. Dean used to poke fun at Davies too, by calling him Mickey, but in a more lighthearted way than the way he teased Ketch. Something about being assholes—but assholes on the wrestling team—had endeared them to Dean; Sam had heard it in his voice even if Dean insisted that Ketch is a brat and Mick is a snake.

“Haven’t seen Dean in school so far this year,” Ketch says loftily.

Sam bristles. Dean’s hardly home long enough to go to school for his last year, and even when he is home he doesn’t want to go. It’s got something to do with the way Sam can sometimes hear him screaming on silent nights in District 5, not that it’s any of Ketch’s business.

“We miss him on the team,” Mick says more gently. “He was undefeated. We’re—”

“We’re piss without him,” Ketch interrupts. “None of the 220 or 285 boys are anywhere near as good as him, and there’s hardly any talent moving up next year. MOL is shite.”

“Well,” Sam says uncomfortably, because he doesn’t know a whole lot about the school’s athletics apart from track, “how good is HA’s wrestling team?” MOL’s rival school is amazing at track and regularly stomps them to the ground. It stands to reason all their athletics are good.

Bevelle snorts. “Hunting Academy’s got L-squared.”

Sam looks at her blankly. “Lee squared,” she elaborates, rolling her eyes. “The Lees. Lee Bender and Lee Webb. Bender’s off his rocker—got suspended last year for two months for dismembering a cat, but he’s too good for them to kick him off the team, and Webb’s a master. His daddy and your daddy were on HA’s wrestling team before your daddy won and moved to the Victor Village. Bender takes care of the 285 category and Webb always wins the 220 weight class.”

“It was a struggle for Dean to beat Webb,” Davies puts in. “So without him, we don’t have a chance.”

“At least they’re gone next year year,” Bevelle points out.

“Yeah, and so is Winchester. He’s not even here for  _ this year _ .”

“At this point the only school our seniors can beat is Abbadon, because they suck,” Ketch mutters. “And they don’t even have a wrestling team this year. So we’re shit out of luck.” Sam winces. Abbadon is the poorest school within a five-mile radius of MOL—their sector, if you will. Each sector’s schools compete against each other in sports, but Sam’s fairly sure it’s only in districts one through six that that happens; as the districts grow smaller and poorer, the time for recreational sports dwindles. As far as he knows, in District 12, each school’s team might only compete against itself. District 12 might not have more than one school. District 12 might not even have recreational sports.

Last time MOL went against Abbadon, two of the school’s measly 15-person track team passed out while running sprints. One  _ died _ .

“But the weekend after the Games starts is the second-biggest competition of the year,” Ketch informs Sam. “Sectors. Dean knows that, right? He’s going to compete, right?”

“I—I think so,” Sam says hesitantly. He doesn’t think so at all, but saying so to Ketch would be a bad idea.

“Good,” Davies says darkly. “We need all the help we can get to go to districts.”

“Nice talking to you,” Bevelle says briskly just as the bell rings and every student in the cafeteria stands up. “And tell your brother to start coming to practice, too.”

“I’m confused,” Amy says snarkily. “Are you on the boy’s wrestling team, too, or do you three just share a hive mind?”

“I’m a manager,” Bevelle sniffs.

“Oh, so you like to watch naked boys roll around on the ground, then?” Amy asks with an evil grin.

“Amy—” Sam starts.

“Not naked,” Davies says primly. “And not your business, Pond.”

“Not that she’d  _ know _ what her business is, anyway,” Bevelle says, just quiet enough that she can plead innocence of saying it directly to Amy, “what with how little she knows in general—”

Sam snaps, “Hey—” but Amy almost pushes him aside, lunging for the smug girl, but is brought up short by Sam’s hand on her arm. “We have to get to class,” he reminds them all, scolding, sounding a little like Dean when he figures out that Sam hasn’t done his homework yet. “And we’re all going to remain civil, if only for Dean.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “How would he feel if he came back and the wrestling team and his brother hated each other? That would make life a little more hectic.”

Ketch starts, his eyes slits, “Like I  _ care _ about if your brother’s life is a little more  _ hectic _ —”

The second bell rings and Amy swears.

“I  _ said _ we’re going to be civil,” Sam demands, “or I’ll forget to tell Dean to compete in Districts or sectors or whatever it is.”

Davies straightens his shirt and nods. “All right then.”

After one more awkward moment, the group of five disperses to their classes. The third and final bell rings, signaling that Sam is late, just as he passes by Mr. Wallace’s classroom. The kids he had been teaching swarm out of it around Sam. The room is empty save the teacher in seconds. Mr. Wallace stands in front of his desk, a book in his hands and his back to the doorway.

Sam didn’t really want to go to class anyway. “Hey, Mr. Wallace!”

The man jumps. The book in his hands hits the floor loudly.

“I haven’t seen you around lately,” Sam says curiously. The man hasn’t come to any rebellion meetings lately and seems to need a substitute teacher almost every day Sam has his class.

“Oh, hey, Sam,” Mr. Wallace says breathily. “What are you—where—aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Sam picks up the book he’d dropped with a small frown. The teacher’s newly-grown thick mustache is trembling. His face looks odd without a smile plastered on it. When Sam offers the book to him, he flinches at first and then rips it away like he thinks it’s a trick.

“Technically I’m supposed to be in science,” Sam admits. “I was hoping you’d write me a pass in a second.”

“Of course,” Mr. Wallace says immediately. “Right now.”

“Well,” Sam says, frowning again, “I just wanted to see you.”

Mr. Wallace flinches again as he starts to scribble out a note.

“You’ve been missing, almost. I haven’t seen you  _ anywhere _ .”

The teacher shoves a pass into Sam’s hands. He glances down absentmindedly and does a double take. It’s not a late pass at all.

“Oh, you know what?” Mr. Wallace asks, smacking a head to his forehead dramatically, “I completely forgot what day it is today. I’ll write you a new one.”

Sam doesn’t respond as he scans the note.

_ Sam, it would be better if you didn’t approach me in public anymore. Your father is infamous for being involved in the rebellion and it could jeopardize both you and me. _

“Here, I’ll just throw that away,” he says loudly and rips the paper out of Sam’s hands, replacing it with the actual late pass. “Bye, Sam!”

Sam finds himself in the empty hallway a little confused as the door slams shut behind him.

* * *

The Capitol anthem plays and Sam looks up in anticipation. The rustling in the kitchen pauses for a second.

“Hello, everyone!” Andrew Gallagher beams out of the TV, colored in head-to-toe in an obscenely dark shade of red, like he’d been bathing in blood. “And welcome to this year’s interviews! Aren’t you all excited for the seventy-first Hunger Games?”

The Capitol audience is deafening. Sam crosses his arms and slouches on the couch, glaring at the flamboyant man. The camera pans out to show this year’s tributes. Predictably, the girls all wear sparkly, revealing dresses and the boys wear darker suits.

Sam’s eyes go to this year’s District 5 tributes. Neither live anywhere near the Victor sector but both were in the crowd when Castiel drew their names. It was something that even Sam found suspicious. He’d never noticed before that the Victor sector children are rarely drawn, because they’re the richest in District 5, but the Reaping is always held in the Victor sector in front of the Justice building, and the reaped children are always in the crowd even if they live hours away. More and more the sham grows more transparent. More and more the citizens grow suspicious.

Sam knows that the Career districts climb over themselves to volunteer. He’d watched all their Reapings and when the selected child’s name was called, Sam hadn’t seen anyone draw away from the selected, even for a second, before more than five people had shouted “I volunteer as tribute!” If they were in the crowd, Sam hadn’t seen them.

The Capitol may not have to stage the reaping in those districts, no matter how large the district is. And in the smaller districts, where the whole population can fit in the Justice Square, there is no sham. But at least in District 5, the whole thing must be decided upon beforehand. It must be staged for the amusement of Capitol citizens.

But when Sam’s own name had been called three years ago, his name slip hadn’t been drawn from the bowl.

The whole thing becomes fishier and fishier. Transparent. A sham.

Sam hears his father say all those things and he barely understands them, but he understands well enough that the Capitol is corrupt and evil and it keeps Dean away from him. It took Jo.

“Let’s take a look at our tributes this year, will we?”

The District 1 tributes are vicious. The girl wears a beautiful gold floor-length dress and the boy wears an all-black suit. When the camera pans to their mentor, the man’s face is unreadable but his oddly feathered suit rustles as he crosses and uncrosses his legs twice in those few seconds of screentime.

The District 2 tributes are sneaky. The girl wears a garishly rainbow-colored dress that starts too low and ends too high. The boy wears a similarly multicolored suit in different shades of blue and white cut into irregular shapes and sewn back together haphazardly. Their mentor is Rufus Turner, a wrinkled dark-skinned man with a single earring. He at least had escaped the multicolored theme of that year, but perhaps his outfit is even worse, as his suit is scaled.

The District 3 tributes are bloodthirsty. The girl’s dress is red and cut in two, exposing a toned midriff, and she matches with Andrew. The boy wears a suit that is lighter red at the neck and darkens until the fabric at his feet is such a dark red that it looks black.

The District 4 tributes’ personalities clash. The girl is stony, her light hair stick-straight, and grey dress barely fashioned at all. The boy is bright-eyed, messy-haired, and his suit may be grey as well but it’s brighter because of his attitude. Their mentor’s face is sunken, her face wispy. Sam knows the look of a morphine addict.

Anna Milton wears a white dress with thick straps and a skirt that flares out from her hips. It is plain.  _ She _ is plain and quiet. Her interview is nothing special. The only thing remarkable about her is the diamonds stringed through her red curls. They blink distractingly at the slightest movement of her head.

“District 5’s stylist was a one-hit wonder, I guess,” John mutters from somewhere behind Sam, and Meg snorts. Sam’s father had come home just an hour ago and told Sam he’d be leaving immediately but wanted to watch the interviews with him.

Anna’s interview concludes and she stands up, fiddling uncomfortably with the straps of her dress. With a swift movement, she snaps them.

Sam gasps and looks away before the dress can fall, waiting for the usual male jeers at nudity, but none come. Reluctantly, he looks back at the screen, and sees that Anna’s dress has completely transformed. A black skirt has settles over her old one in tatters. The dress is now sleeveless. When Anna walks back to her seat, the tiny diamonds sewn onto the black fabric glitter in odd patterns.

“It’s the stars,” Meg whispers next to Sam. “They’re ripping apart the sky.”

The camera pans to Dean, who is sitting next to the odd escort Castiel. The escort, who never seems to change clothes, is utterly boring to look at. Dean, on the other hand, is wearing a white suit that looks to be splattered with red paint, but it looks more like bloodstains. As Sam watches, Dean puts his head in his hands. Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder and he flinches before turning around to look at the stylists sitting behind him. The two women look back, stone-faced.

“Our stylists are going to die,” John says grimly. “Naomi will be annoyed at the stunts they’re pulling.”

“Oh, come on,” a Peacekeeper Sam doesn’t recognize snorts. “That dress was hardly a political statement. It was just shock factor. It’s how our stylists get attention. It’s just cheap—”

“Everything is a political statement. If you don’t believe that, then you’re a fool.” John turns away from the television when Dock starts his interview. “Look at the sword!” he yells suddenly, pointing at the screen that doesn’t hold Dean’s picture. Sam jumps. “He understands. More than any of  _ you _ .”

“This rebellion’s halted,” Meg argues. “If not dead. Naomi knows that. Your son’s been useless. He’s content to play Naomi’s games—”

John snorts. “The sword will fight when we tell him to fight.”

“Look at him!” Meg shouts. Sam looks. The lights are casting shadows under Dean’s eyes and his cheekbones. The suit is horrendous but he looks fine overall.

Sam frowns. “Dean shouldn’t have to fight. He’s  _ already _ fought.” Isn’t a Victor’s life supposed to be easy and happy?

John just looks at him.

It’s almost a relief when he leaves again, even when he says he’ll come back.

Is it wrong of Sam to hope he never does?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE SO MANY THEORIES ABOUT WHAT THE WINCHESTERS ARE DOING RIGHT NOW. IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE MOST RECENT SPN EPISODES DO NOT READ THIS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.  
> Okay, so for the past few episodes we’ve been seeing Dean lie a lot, whether he’s lying to Amara about hurting her or Sam and his friends about seeing dead bodies. My guess is he’s also lying to Billie about being on board with the plan of blowing Jack up to kill Chuck. I mean, we are led to assume that Cas told Dean about Jack’s deal with Billie NOT Cas’s deal with the Empty or Dean wouldn’t have let Cas leave. Why would Cas be texting Dean if he was on board with Billie? I think Dean lied to Billie (obviously) to make her think that he is on board with her. However, he’s lying to Sam about being on board with it so it seems like the Winchesters are fighting about whether or not to go through with the plan. I’m sure Billie knows or is watching and will be so distracted by the Winchesters feuding that she won’t notice what Cas is doing until (hopefully) it’s too late.  
> Another theory I have is that Billie’s target is not actually Jack. She has been a recurring character in the seasons neutral to the Winchesters at best and actively hostile at worst. Multiple times she has stated an active desire to see them dead. However, she has no quarrel with Jack. Maybe it’s not possible, but what if she plans to have the Winchesters with Jack when he ‘blows himself up’ and the explosion vaporizes the fragile humans but leaves the powerful nephilim alone? Or what if they’re not with him but the explosion is still tied to them and it kills them?  
> Let me know what all you guys think. Just considering the amount of lying characters have been doing recently I wouldn’t put it past everyone to be deceiving each other with multiple degrees of success.  
> Last point: we have been led several times in the show to believe that Sam and Dean are fighting when they actually aren’t (the first example that comes to mind is their staged fight when trying to kill Gabriel/The Trickster in Tall Tales). What if they aren’t angry with each other at all but merely putting on a show for Billie’s benefit? Unlikely, in my opinion, but possible.  
> I would love to hear everyone’s opinions on these theories. Please let me know in the comments!


	6. Peter Sweeney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS THEY MADE IT CANON!!!! AND JACK DIDN'T DIE!  
> Oh my god, I have so many feels and thoughts about the new episodes. And are you guys terrified for this week's ep? Shit's going down. Didn't they say 15.19 is the 'season finale' and 15.20 will be the 'series finale'? My bets are on Chuck dying this episode so we can have our happy ending next Thursday, but feel free to disagree with me in the comments.  
> Do you guys think Cas is coming back? Personally I believe he will just because. And also because we have to have a happy ending. Also, didn't someone say Misha hasn't been in all the episodes he was supposed to be? Plus, because a gay man wrote that episode, he wouldn't do the kill your gays trope to us, right? But you all have to understand my excitement during that scene. I mean, you're all reading a physical manifestation of my love for this ship. I've shipped these boys for literal years and honestly thought there was no chance they would be canon, but they are!!! I hope you all are as happy about this as I am!  
> The next time I see you guys will be after Supernatural has ended. I'm terrified. However as a little treat because we're all going to go insane, would you all like me to post another chapter next Monday instead of in two Mondays? Let me know in the comments. It's the only time I'm willing to do it because the concept of Supernatural ending is just... terrifying. But we all have to get through it!  
> Fingers crossed Dean, Cas, Sam, and Jack all get the ending they deserve.  
> Anyways, here's the chapter.

_ then _

Castiel’s eyes are too worried when he looks at Dean. He treats him too gently, like he’s some sort of china plate that’ll shatter if dropped. He stands too close, like he’s waiting for him to fall so he can catch him. Sometimes he’ll grab Dean’s elbow as if he’s stumbling.

Something had changed when he’d found Dean unconscious, blood and flesh in little puddles scattered on the ground around him. Maybe he’d understood it was Naomi, or maybe he’d thought it was Dean’s own doing; neither male has spoken about it explicitly. But he’d been there when Dean woke up, his tongue on fire, and he was there when Dean refused morphine, and he was there when Dean tried to speak for the first time and the pain and the lisp brought tears to his eyes.

It had been nice, at first. Not many people have cared about Dean like that. Not that Cas actually cares about him. But he cared  _ for _ him.

Now it’s just annoying.

He was never coddled as a child and Dean is far from a child now.

He shakes Cas off, relishing and regretting the slight look of hurt on his face, and exits District 3’s Justice Building while stuffing the offered earpiece into its correct place. A faint buzz is the only sign that the device is on.

He’s wearing a suit that reminds him of the Roadhouse in the way the shiny silver metal surface isn’t bent, exactly, but textured so that it reflects light, the same way the Roadhouse’s glass is textured. Luckily the metal isn’t one suit, as it appears, but millions of pieces about half the length of his thumb sewn onto a skintight black suit. He’s a walking machine.

If only. It would make things so much easier.

District 3’s Justice Building is gorgeous. Dean had expected nothing less from a Career district. A large clock is the front’s only ornamentation, but there are so many gears and ticking hands that he can’t make any sense out of it. There are at least three different clocks within the one, all moving at different speeds and different sizes. The smallest one whizzes by and the largest one doesn’t move at all. It must make sense to the people here, right? He peers closer and sees that even the clock's ticking hands are made of tiny, intricate gears, making the edges look wavery.

The building itself is rather plain. The white stone almost looks grey, as if it hasn’t been cleaned in years, which is a direct contrast to the gleaming clock. It’s hardly visible, anyway; the clock takes up most of the front wall, including the doors. Dean can’t fathom the amount of planning and effort that went into each gear that makes up that clock.

The crowd’s cheering sounds much too authentic. It grates on Dean’s ears, making him wince. He can barely hear the clicking of his heel as he walks up the stairs to the stage, but he knows if the crowd was silent it would sound like rapid gunfire.

Peacekeepers back him up and surround his sides. The only way out is forward, and what would Dean do if he ran forward? Run into the families of the kids he’d killed or the crowd of experienced and wannabe killers?

Besides, he doubts he’d make it two steps of rebellion before the terrible device in his arm incapacitates him.

Dean may not recognize the older people in the front row, but he recognizes the looks in their eyes. They’re angry. They’re disillusioned. They survived the Games and were rewarded for a while until they lost their flair or got too old and then they got sent back to their own district or weren’t invited to come to the Capitol anymore. They may still have their prizes and their luxury but they don’t have their fame and if they don’t get quite as much as they used to before, nobody cares enough about them anymore to complain.

That’ll be Dean when the Capitol forgets about him and Jo. His fame will burn brighter than most and it’ll die out quicker, too, because Naomi doesn’t like him. She sees him as a threat, even if Dean will go along with her plans to protect Sam.

Wendy Igo’s family stands to Dean’s right and Peter Sweeney’s is to his left. Their faces all blur together. He’d never be able to pick any of them out of a crowd. He has the faint impression of dark hair to his left and tall bodies to his right, but that is all.

The crowd’s faces all blur together, too. It’s just as well; he might have seen Wendy, her skin blackened and flaking, mingling with the others, or perhaps Peter Sweeney dripping blood from severed limbs.

The heads of hair are darker than District 1 and 2. Light brown is most common; a far cry from the white-blonde of District 1 and the golden heads of hair that are so common in District 2. Those with dark skin have the darkest hair, but there are far fewer dark-skinned folk in the Career districts than the districts further from the Capitol.

There might be more variety in other sectors of District 3 that are further from the Justice Building and Victor’s Village.

Naomi coughs in Dean’s ear and he realizes that he’d been so caught up in thought he hadn’t spoken. He clears his throat.

Speaking is hard without part of his tongue, but luckily not enough was taken that speech is impossible. It requires more concentration to make sure every word comes out perfectly, but come on. Nobody speaks exactly perfectly. Gordon Walker tended to drop vowels when he spoke quickly and Sammy had trouble pronouncing the ‘th’ sound for the first six years of his life.

“Hello, District 3,” Dean says slowly. His brow furrows. The notecards are right there on the podium but his hands don’t come to rest next to them. They stay at his sides in fists. “It is my greatest honor to appear before you today as your newest Victor.”

“I see your speech therapy has been very effective, considering it’s only been five days,” Naomi comments dryly. As if she doesn’t know the relentless hours he went over this exact speech to get the words right. As if she doesn’t know he hasn’t even tried to speak words outside of his script yet.

Dean blinks.

The crowd cheers. A few people clap, like gunshots. Dean manages to turn his winces into harsh blinking, every inch of him rigid.

He swallows. His tongue feels fuzzy. “I would of course like to thank the Capitol for allowing me this opportunity. Though this success comes with a regrettable price. I would—”

A bird screeches and he flinches. A few people in the crowd flinch as well, and at least one child cries out. A nervous laugh rolls through the crowd.

“Twitchy, twitchy,” Naomi croons in his ear. Her voice turns hard when she orders, “Relax. The crowd can sense your mood.”

“I would—” But the bird’s cry threw him off. He can’t, for the life of him, remember the rest of the speech, even though he’d gone over it countless times.

Dean licks his lips nervously and reaches for the notecards. He finds his place easily. “I would first like to honor my district partner, Joanna Harvelle.” Someone whistles from the crowd and a small pulls Dean’s lips up. “Our time together was too short—” He makes a face as he skips ahead.  _ What is this drivel? _ He skips past the unnecessary stuff that is surely only there for Capitol viewers. Things like, ‘I will remember her forever’ and ‘her place in my heart will never truly heal’. Stuff that he’d felt vaguely, especially just after she’d died, but would never say out loud, even under threat of death. Stuff that he’ll be punished for skipping. But come on, who would actually believe he’d say that stuff?

“Your tributes fought well and were fearless. In fact,” Dean adds, huffing out a laugh, “I was scared of them.”

The crowd laughs a little louder. They are by far the best crowd Dean’s had so far.

“You were honored,” Dean says simply. He nods and a cheer rises from the crowd. “I hope to honor them in return.”

He turns and Castiel is there. Dean doesn’t want to see the pitying or coddling look on his face so he looks at the ground.

His ankle clicks as he walks off the stage. It clicks as he walks down the steps. It clicks as he enters the Justice Building. And it clicks when he enters his room, jaw clenched against the pain that must surely be coming. He’d considered stuffing a rag in his mouth to prevent further injury, but decided he’d be too likely to choke on it.

He wants so badly to run. Run into the crowd, run into the district. Run to anyone to prevent the pain. Run to Cas, who would understand.

But there is nowhere that Naomi cannot see.

“Do better next time,” she says sharply. Dean jumps, his heart pounding. “That was satisfactory.”

Dean rips the device from his ear and eases his tensed figure by inches.

* * *

_ now _

“Are you still watching that crap?”

Sam scowls at Bobby, who sets a ham and cheese sandwich on a plate in his lap. He’s curled up on the couch watching the Capitol’s pre-Games special. He and Dean watched it together every year until Dean himself became a segment on the pre-Games special. “There’s nothing else to do,” he points out. Nearly every store in District 5 is closed. The only people wandering the streets are the betters, looking for anyone to swindle out of a few coins, and a few unfortunate Road kids scrounging for food. If you refuse the betters, they could get angry and violent because this is their main source of income and it only comes about once a year. If you have nothing to give to the Road kids, without witnesses, they’re desperate and might rob and/or hurt you out of desperation.

It’s much safer to stay inside this day. Besides, the actual Games are mandatory to watch. Why risk getting lost or hurt and missing the Bloodbath?

“It’s morbid,” the elder Victor says distastefully. He sits down on the opposite end of the couch with his own sandwich and tosses a blanket to Sam. The fifteen year-old boy takes it gratefully and wads it around his legs, wiggling his bare toes slightly.

“There’s literally nothing else on,” Sam argues.

A tinny cannon stops Bobby from saying whatever he’d been about to say, so he just shakes his head, making Sam bristle, and looks back at the screen. The victor of the 69th Hunger Games, Brady Croatoan, stands up from where he had just finished bashing in the brains of one of his opponents with a rock.

“We’ve already seen this,” Bobby says after a moment, the words pulled from his mouth reluctantly.

“Yeah, but they cut out all the boring parts.”

The scene dissolves into a birds-eye view of a sewer system. The number 70 unfurls across the screen, then disappears. The words ‘VICTOR: EILEEN LEAHY, DISTRICT 10’ replace it. They fade too, followed by Eileen’s headshot where she smiles prettily at whatever camera had taken the photo.

The shot changes to Eileen Leahy in last year’s arena, which had been a series of tunnels. Most of the Games was shot with night cameras, making everyone look green and eery. Most tributes were rendered nearly blind and so had to rely on their ears. Unfortunately for Eileen, she was deaf back then. She’d opted to spend most of her time in the nasty sewer water so she would be able to feel if anyone tried to approach in the water. It was a smart tactic. She might have won the whole Games without any danger if people hadn't had projectile weapons.

A knife whizzes past her ear and she gasps, whirling around. Her eyes must have adjusted somewhat in that time spent in near-total blackness, because she sees the form of the District 5 girl, Lisa Braeden, approaching quickly with throwing knives in each hand and another knife strapped to her leg. Lisa throws another knife that Eileen has to dive out of the way to dodge; she’d taken to projectile weapons very quickly even though Dean told Sam she’d never used any before she was reaped. Her head goes under the water and Sam cringes.

Then comes the silence. Eileen doesn’t resurface. The cameras pick up her body heat under the surface of the water, frog-kicking in Lisa’s direction. Lisa takes one step back, then two forward as she peers into the nasty, gunky water, looking for ripples. Too late, she sees Eileen’s body. Eileen surges up, drawing in a heaving gulp of air, and splashes water at Lisa. She jumps back, her hands drawn up to protect her eyes, and slips on the wet floor, landing on her back. Eileen grabs her ankle and yanks her in the water. Thus ensues a confusing fight between the girls that involves biting and pulling hair, as the knife had fallen from Lisa’s hand when she’d been pulled.

Eileen didn’t have any weapons; she’d wasted no time in running from the Bloodbath. It had actually been a bad decision for once; the darkness had left everyone fumbling. Only three people in total had died on the first day, and one had been completely by accident.

Eileen gains the upper hand, used to the water’s cold temperature. Sam also suspects she’d known how to swim before the Games. Lisa, on the other hand, is cold and doesn’t know how to swim.

Eileen shoves her head underwater. She looks back at the knife on the stone walkway. One hand leaves Lisa’s hair and reaches for it, but the other girl starts to struggle harder when she senses a little bit of weakness. She manages to twist just enough that she can draw in a shuddering gasp of air.

Eileen fists both her hands in the girl’s hair and holds her under. At some point they roll due to the drowning girl’s thrashing and they both surface gasping, but Lisa is spluttering. Eileen lunges at her before she can draw in another breath of air.

Eventually the girl stops struggling. Eileen draws in panting breaths, her eyes looking around wildly as she keeps the girl’s head underwater, probably to make sure she’s not faking. The girl’s arm flops once more and then sinks.

The camera angle switches, showing how the same tunnel Lisa had come from is lit up. The District 5 boy, Cuthbert Sinclair, had grabbed one of the two torches during the Bloodbath, and he was approaching with haste. Eileen releases the girl, shaking strands of her hair off of her fingers. Without even a splash, she frogkicks away from the dead body with her mouth and chin underwater, breathing through her nose and scanning her surroundings warily.

She might not have heard the anguished howls of Cuthbert when he found his partner dead, but Sam had, and he hears them again now. He shivers despite the blanket.

“Do you need another blanket?” Bobby asks, his mouth twisted up into a displeased bow at the cruelty depicted on the television.

Sam shakes his head wordlessly. Dean had told him after those Games that drowning is a terrible way to die and that Eileen is a real bitch, and not just for drowning Lisa. He says that she’s selfish and mean and rude and can’t even talk very well.

Sam had tried not to point out that he had tears in his eyes and he was slurring his speech. Dean hates it when he slurs. He hates when people hear him slur. He doesn’t like to talk about how his tongue got mangled. He just said that Naomi had cut part of it off. John had sworn and Sam had repeated the forbidden words, relishing the way they made his chest feel warm. Especially when he can’t do anything to Naomi for hurting Dean.

The Capitol anthem plays and Asmodeus Stardonna appears on the screen. He smiles brightly, exposing way too many teeth that are way too white to be natural. “Hello, listeners! I hope you’re as excited for this year’s Games as I am. Fortunately, we won’t have to wait much longer! The 71st Hunger Games will begin in exactly twenty minutes.” He smiles again, nearly blinding Sam, and the Capitol anthem plays as the screen changes back to a birds-eye view of a Games Sam doesn’t recognize. Bobby must, though, because he sits up straight.

The number 40 appears in the middle of the screen. The 40th Games. ‘VICTOR: ROBERT SINGER, DISTRICT 5’.

Sam gasps and leans forward, sandwich forgotten. Bobby’s headshot fills the screen. He scowls at the camera, his hair in a spiky buzzcut and lighter than Sam has ever seen it. His nose was large back then, too; his face is clean-shaven, and his cheekbones aren’t prominent. If Sam squints, he recognizes the eyes are the same, but other than that Bobby looks completely different.

A boy and a girl sit across from each other, separated by a campfire that a skinned animal roasts over. They talk quietly. Sam scans their surroundings. The arena that year was a mountain. A small patch of trees is to their right and an outcropping of rock protects them from a harsh fall down the mountain.

“Who’s that?” Sam asks eagerly. “Was she your district partner? Who killed her?”

Bobby shakes his head, transfixed as he stares at the screen.

“—only ones left,” the girl says.

Younger Bobby shakes his head. “The boy I stabbed is still alive. There hasn’t been another cannon.”

“And when he dies?”

“Karen,” he says softly. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“You have to or I’ll kill you,” the girl replies. Her voice is nonchalant and has a harsh edge to it that Sam recognizes it. It sounds like whenever Dean is holding back tears. “But you have a mother to go back to. I have nothing.”

Younger Bobby opens his mouth.

A cannon sounds out and the two tributes flinch. The fire crackles between them before Karen sighs and draws a knife. Bobby stares at the animal blackening over the fire. “Please,” he whispers.

“Let it be a fair fight. Let the victor be truthfully won,” Karen orders.

Bobby draws his own knife. They stand up at the same time and before Karen can do anything, Bobby leans over the small fire, now practically embers, and kisses her.

Sam makes a face but can’t look away.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Karen says when they break away.

“I had to, at least once,” Younger Bobby replies, his voice cracking, and then Karen lunges for him. He ducks and rolls away, kicking the back of her knees. She folds to the ground near the fire and hisses as the ground, heated by the flames, burns her. Younger Bobby, who should have stabbed her while she was down, just watches as she stands up.

“You’re not trying,” Karen snarls. “Don’t make this too easy, Singer.”

Younger Bobby backs up a little bit when she comes at him with the knife again, but not quick enough. The weapon slices through his shirt but he doesn’t wince in pain so apparently not through his skin. Before Karen can rebalance he shoves her back.

“Try, damnit!” Karen snarls, pushing her hair away from her face.

But Sam can see that the nonchalance is an act. Younger Bobby backs away again, a little bit closer to the edge of the mountain, but not so far or close that his act is given up. He kicks a rock and it hits Karen’s leg.

They spar again. At some point Younger Bobby hurls Karen away from him, putting her between him and the edge. He’ll be on the offensive if he wants to push her off.

He goes on the offensive. Little shoves and punches that are sent back equally, but he’s just a little bigger and stronger than Karen, so when she tries to slit his throat he ducks and runs her through the stomach.

A breath hisses from between Sam’s clenched teeth as Karen coughs, hands cradling the weapon in her stomach. She stumbles back, wavering on the edge of the cliff without even realizing it, and she mouths something to Younger Bobby that Sam can’t make out.

Then she topples.

The scene dissolves and the number 48 replaces it. Then the words ‘VICTOR: MARY CAMPBELL, DISTRICT 5’.

This time, Sam falls off the couch at the sight of his mother’s headshot. She’s just fifteen—his age—in the photo. She could be another student at MOL. Her hair is light, like Dean’s used to be, and she doesn’t smile at the camera like Eileen or scowl like Bobby, but her face has a solemn sort of amusement to it.

“She’s beautiful,” Sam breathes. And strong. She’d have to be, in order to survive the Games. Sam doesn’t think he’d be able to do it. He’ll never be as strong as Dean or John or his mother.

Her arena was a forest. A river runs through the middle of it and branches off at the very top of the arena. At first Sam doesn’t realize what the cameras are recording—it looks like an odd bush with a bright orange spot is rustling. Then he peers closer and sees more defined outlines. The orange spot is a backpack slung over the back of an oddly leafy humanoid creature. An oddly leafy  _ blonde _ creature.

Mary is picking berries that she puts painstakingly into little silver boxes. Sam recognizes the packaging of sponsor gifts. After she has three, she puts them in her backpack and climbs a large oak tree like a squirrel. Somehow—Sam suspects by using tree sap—she had arranged leaves all over her exposed skin, including her face. Her leggings are brown and so is her jacket, but she’d still arranged leaves on the front of the outfit. Her backpack is jarringly orange, like Dean’s had been, and she checks over her shoulder multiple times to make sure it’s not visible.

Carefully and silently, she climbs from tree to tree. She’s so careful and slow that Sam has no doubt the Capitol edited out some of the painful waiting. Mary reaches the campsite of three tributes in just about thirty seconds. Sam suspects they’re the remaining Careers, especially when he sees how large and intimidating the boy is and how lethal the two girls look. One girl wears her hair in a braid and the other a ponytail.

Mary gains her purchase slowly. She has to be shielded enough from the Career’s gaze and not too far in the foliage for the packages not to reach their targets. Finally Mary climbs along a thick branch like a snake.

Mary reaches inside her backpack for the three packages slowly. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and throws the gifts into the air when a breeze picks up just a little bit. The little parachutes catch wind easily and a tinkling tune breaks the silence of the Games.

Sam’s mother flattens herself against the tree, arms hugging the branch she’s holding onto for dear life, as the three Careers look up.

A wide grin splits the face of the boy and the jogs over to the flying presents, jumping to snatch one out of the air. The other two presents continue to fly, dropping lower as they careen to the girls. They finally touch the ground just ten meters in front of the sitting girls.

“What is it?” the girl with the braid calls.

The boy screws open the lid. “Berries. I guess we’ve got enough support that we all can have a treat.”

The girls exchange glances that Sam can’t read. They must know that there are only four tributes left. Ponytail stands up and picks up both packages, inspecting them carefully before tossing one to Braid. She jogs over to the treeline, only a few trees away from where Mary is, and squints up as if she knows what’s going on.

“They’re good,” the boy insists, popping one into his mouth. Braid also opens the package and eats a berry. Finally, just when Sam starts to get nervous that the two tributes are going to start choking before Ponytail eats one, she shrugs and unscrews the package.

Mary’s shoulders slump with relief at the sight, but she remains still until all three tributes have eaten at least two berries before beginning a descent down the tree. Her progress is still slow, but not nearly as slow as she’d been when approaching the Careers.

The sound of her boots hitting the ground alerts Ponytail and she whirls around, fingers stained with berry juice. She reaches for the large knife on her side. “You!” When she doesn’t hear her partners, she asks, “Guys?”

She gets no response. Ponytail chances a glance behind her and sees that the boy and Braid are both on the ground, twitching. She gasps and then chokes. She manages one more ragged breath before she hits the grass, too.

Three cannons fire.

Mary slumps against the tree, breathing heavily, and then the image dissolves.

“No—” Sam reaches out to the screen. Dean and John don’t like to talk about Mary. If they own any pictures of her, he doesn’t think he’s seen any except for the one of her hugging Dean. And she’d been  _ beautiful _ . Even dirty, sweaty, and covered in leaves and tree sap.

He clenches the blanket in his fists, angry tears rising in his eyes so quickly he’s surprised. Why couldn’t Naomi have left them alone?

A birds-eye view of another forest is shown, but this forest has different trees and is a lot more hilly than the forest Mary had competed in. The big number 51 fills the screen, followed by the words ‘VICTOR: JOHN WINCHESTER, DISTRICT 5’. John’s headshot is shown too, and he scowls at the camera just like Bobby. His hair is shorter but thicker than it is now, his hairline hasn’t receded as much, and his face is more angular and clean-shaven.

A group of five Careers walk together in a group, all with weapons drawn. John Winchester, painfully young, with much less lines on his face, and a scowl that’s borne out of concentration and not habit, crouches behind a fallen log to their right. Blood has discolored the shoulder of the green tunic he wears, but he doesn’t move with too much difficulty. Sam’s breath catches when he sees that John only has a knife in his hand—a far cry from the Careers, who all have large melee or ranged weapons.

A couple things happen at the same time. John rotates quickly and chucks a small rock right at a Career girl at the same time a Career boy steps into a trap. His ankle is no match for the snare and he’s hoisted up by a broken bone, screaming with pain the whole way. The rock hits the Career girl in the head and she goes down hard. The three other Careers stand back to back, looking around wildly.

John, who had hidden again, picks up another rock beside him and takes a deep breath. He tosses it once, judging its balance, and stands up to chuck it in their direction again. It’s a little off target; it just hits the remaining girl in the thigh and she doesn’t even flinch. One of the other boys works to untangle the still-screaming boy and the remaining girl and boy charge for where John is hiding. They both jump over the log, which was a mistake. The boy lands awkwardly and skids on the leaves on the ground while John takes advantage of the girl’s momentary confusion and wraps his arm around her, knife pressed to her neck.

“Take a step back,” he orders, glancing behind him to make sure the other boy is still occupied. He seems to be sure that his allies will be able to take out the District 5 tribute. “Or I slit her throat.”

The girl gasps, tugging at his arm, and the boy doesn’t move. John shrugs and drags the knife through the girl’s throat. He lets her drop. “I would have done it anyway,” he tells the shocked boy. “Don’t feel too bad.”

“You  _ bastard _ ,” the other boy hisses. He raises his spear and makes to run John through. John simply steps to the side. The boy recovers quickly and tries to charge again. Sam’s father grabs the spear, wrenches it to the side, and slashes the boy’s throat as he stumbles.

Two out of five down, John vaults over the log. The girl he’d gotten with the rock is still unconscious and the boy with the broken ankle has only just now fallen to the ground.

With a grunt, he stabs the standing boy in the back and then slits his throat for good measure. The boy with the broken ankle whimpers, trying to scoot back, but, well. Slitting throats seems to be John’s move, and he’s very good at it. He takes out the unconscious girl too, and once all the cannons are fired he straightens, eyes blazing, and wipes the knife on his sleeve. He has blood spatters on his face as well as dirt smears, but he’s a Victor and he knows it.

“Wow,” Sam can only say.

“You enjoy this?”

“It’s weird to see my parents so young. My dad looks so different. So do you. But you’re all so awesome.”

The screen shows a familiar arena. A countdown has started in the corner of the screen until the start of this year’s Games—three minutes exactly.

Sam’s not exactly surprised when the screen displays 68 and ‘VICTOR: DEAN WINCHESTER, DISTRICT 5’. Dean’s headshot is shown, too, but he looks a lot younger than Sam remembers him being at sixteen. At sixteen Dean was a lot taller than that. Right? He barely looks taller than Sam is now. His hair was so light. And his  _ face _ . He had so many more freckles. His cheeks were fuller.

Sam frowns, looking closer, and the headshot disappears. The screen now portrays a small girl caught up in a net. She starts to scream Dean’s name. The shot changes to sixteen year-old Dean stumbling in a rockfall.

Sam can’t take his eyes off the screen, his mouth dry even though he knows that Dean will be fine. He jumps when the screen seems to splinter before cutting to another angle of Dean staggering away. That part never fails to get him. All of that section of the fake district had been destroyed, including the cameras that had been placed there. It’s not often the broadcast shows damaged cameras.

But Dean’s so  _ small _ .

“And you enjoy watching your brother fight for his life?”

Sam snorts. “Come on. It was never a fight.” He hadn’t known it then, of course. “I’m watching Dean be  _ badass _ .”

_ My age? Only a year older? _ Sam tries to think how he would feel if he were to fight in the Games next year and a terror grips him, so blinding he almost can’t breathe just at the mere  _ thought _ . He thinks of doing it for Dean, the same way Dean had volunteered for him, and anger replaces the fear.

_ Pull it together, _ he reminds himself.  _ You’re not going to be reaped again. It’s a stupid fantasy. _

_ This is why Naomi needs to die. _

“Pick up your sandwich,” Bobby says distantly. It had gone flying sometime between Mary and John’s Games playing, and Sam flushes somewhat as he picks up the pieces of meat, cheese, and bread.

The Capitol anthem plays and Sam stiffens. Asmodeus appears again, flashing those unnatural pearls, and proclaims the 71st Hunger Games and something about praising President Naomi. He throws the soiled food away and practically leaps back onto the couch, burrowing back underneath the blanket.

A broadcast of this year’s arena shows and Sam leans forward with anticipation. The landscape this year will be especially hard to survive in; it’s a desert. Sam suspects there will be a few more terrain-induced deaths this year than Capitol citizens would prefer. It’ll probably be a quick Games.

The shifting sands are quite beautiful, though. There are a few dunes, and a mountain in the middle of the arena. A lake is near the Cornucopia. That’ll be the only reliable source of water, unless that evaporates or is drained.

Sam has read about deserts. He knows they’re extremely hot during the day and bitterly cold during the night, and that there are all sorts of odd creatures and plants there that have adapted.

Humans are not one of the species that has adapted. Not any Haven citizens, anyway.

Sam spots Anna Milton right away. She is the only redheaded girl competing in the Games this year. Dock Morton is to her right.

Asmodeus proclaims the sixty-second countdown and Sam holds his breath in anticipation. At forty-three he has to release it to suck in a new breath, and Bobby kicks him gently.

At zero, Anna hesitates while Dock jumps into the sand immediately. He stumbles and falls on the unreliable surface. Some others around him seem to be having that problem. Anna looks around and sees that. An unusual set to her lips firms her expression and she jumps gently onto the sand, takes one hesitant step, and starts to run. She dodges the occasional spat, heading straight for a blue backpack. She reaches for it, fingers stretching, touching, grasping—

A Career boy appears, hulking, and drives a spear right through her back. He pushes until his fist is pushed against her back and then drives the point into the ground, pinning her on it like a beetle in a science classroom’s controlled-environment specimen case. Anna sinks down on the spear slowly, sputtering, sobbing in pain, and gasping, and when her face is in the sand she can’t find the strength to move it. So she suffocates, choking on burning sand.

Sam winces and looks away. There are a few really bad ways to go, and suffocation is one of those ways. When the sound of Anna suffocating to death fades, he looks back to see Dock locked in combat with a Career girl that had received a high evaluation score. They look to be a fairly even match, as she has no weapons at the moment and he played football at whatever school he attended before being reaped, or so Sam heard a pair of girls say at school.

Dock yanks her long braid back; she bites his arm. He punches her in the face; she kicks him in the crotch. For a moment it even seems that he might have the upper hand, but then the girl yells. “Eve!” she bawls.

The District 1 girl appears. She’d received the highest evaluation score this year and she already has a wooden pole. Though the heat already has her pitch-black hair sticking to her pale skin, she grits her teeth and smashes Dock across the head with the stick. He goes flying.

Just like that, District 5 is out for the count. It’s not that unusual; Careers tend to go after the weakest and strongest at first, preferring to relax at a happy medium for a while before turning on each other. They don’t like to let threats live long, not after Dean.

They don’t like to let District 5 tributes live long, specifically.

The broadcast changes for one second to the mentor screening. Dean’s head is in his hands. The District 1 mentor is grinning, raising a glass in celebration. Rufus Turner is the only one at the Career mentor table that doesn’t raise his in reply. He stares at the table, deep in thought.

After a second Dean stands up, his chair screeching, and storms out of the room. Castiel follows.


	7. Mary Worthington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words. Absolutely none.  
> Actually, I have a lot, but none of them are appropriate. At all. So I'm just going to go along with, that was a fucking shit awful cat vomit ending of a show and I'm manifesting it away. For now, this is my rewrite of it. The characters might not be in the same universe, but they're the same people and I'm giving the people what they want, dammit (which is a satisfying ending where everything isn't thrown away for shock factor and homophobia).  
> I need people to reassure me that you're still going to read this even after that godawful ending, because goddamn I am not sure if I will be able to rewatch the show like I used to.  
> Please review.

_ now _

The only sign that the train is moving is the trees whizzing by the window. They alone betray how quick the train is. Dean almost wishes the train was subpar; it would give him something else to be angry about.

The door swishes open and Cas steps into the train’s car. In his hand he clutches a fresh bandage. Dean scowls and looks away. “I told you to go away.”

“And I told you not to be stupid.”

Cas kicks the broken remnants of a glass in front of him and kneels in front of Dean.

“I quite thought you were done being stupid for today.”

Mildly chastened, Dean looks away, cheeks hot, and allows Cas to take his bandaged hand. New spots of blood are staining the white from shards of glass piercing the skin. Or perhaps he’d pulled his stitches. That, along with the mess on the ground, is the only sign that Dean had another fit after destroying his house.

Dean feels a little guilty that his house is trashed again, but there is also more anger that his tributes were killed first just because of his legacy. Smashing glasses was the only way to drown out the sound of Anna choking on blood and sand ringing in his ears. Knocking furniture over was the only way to drown out the sound of a stick knocking out Dock.

It’s his fault, and the Capitol’s fault, and the Avoxes work for the Capitol. They can clean up the mess well enough.

Cas efficiently removes the two largest shards of glass from Dean’s knuckles. “Do you feel any other pieces?”

Dean shakes his head. His hand still hurts, but he doesn’t wince when Cas unravels the bandage, even when it pulls on his scabbing knuckles. Why Cas cares so much about patching him up, he doesn’t know. These are killer’s hands.

“Well, let me know if you do.”

A splash of alcohol makes Dean tense but he doesn’t hiss. The sting is too satisfying. He deserves it, anyway. Still, he shakes his hand out and almost smiles with a drop hits Cas in the eye and he flinches back.

Cas shakes his head and rolls his eyes at Dean. “You’re infuriating.”

“Aww, thanks,” Dean coos, teasing to lighten the mood; the escort’s stony mood darkens the train car. He flinches as Cas wraps his knuckles with more force than necessary.

“It’s not your fault,” Cas says quietly once he’s finished, his hand resting over Dean’s. “I know you won’t listen to me, but you should know that I, at least, don’t blame you.”

“It was, though,” Dean insists, pulling his hand away reluctantly. “It  _ was _ my fault.”

“How?” Cas cocks his head. “You told them both to run from the Bloodbath. It was their choice to run into the fighting.”

“It  _ was _ ,” Dean repeats through numb lips. Cas can see that all Career tributes go for District 5 tributes, right? They don’t want another Dean. It’s his fault. He gave a non-Career district a spectacular win. He can’t escape the spotlight. It’s  _ his fault. _

Cas sighs and shakes his head. “If I leave you alone for a few minutes, you won’t destroy the train, right?”

“I’m not crazy, Cas,” Dean replies, scowling. And besides, if he was going to destroy something, he wouldn’t really care about whether or not Cas was in the car with him. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Stop that!”

Dean jumps. Cas takes his hand again, scowling at his left forearm. He’d started scratching it unconsciously. The skin there almost smarts more than his bleeding knuckles. It doesn’t even itch.  _ Why do I do that? _

“Is it not enough that you’ve terrorized every Avox working on this train, Dean Winchester? Must you terrorize yourself as well for choices you had to make to protect your brother? Must you also terrorize me, making me chase you, wondering every second if I’ll find you dead when I see you next?”

Dean stands, yanking his hand away from Cas. He hisses, “There were a lot of choices I could have made in the arena, Castiel, and I made all the worst ones.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you think you made the worst choices? Why would you make those choices if they were so bad?”

“Because—” Dean spins, running his hands through his hair, gripping and pulling like he’ll be able to pull his scalp right off his overheated brain, let it cool off. “Because too many people are dead because of me! I could have chosen to be dead and let Jo live; I could have made her go check the traps and Ava would have killed me instead. But everything is so confusing in the arena, you never know what anyone else is thinking, and—”

He’d been panicked, so panicked. Every second his mind was plagued with the child’s worry that he wouldn’t survive the next day. Dean had fumbled through the whole competition, trying so hard to live up to his parents’ reputations so he could save his sister and brother, and he hadn’t even noticed that by dying he’d be saving both of them once and for all. But he’d also been selfish, and childish, and he hadn’t wanted to die until the very end until it was too late.

The panic. The rockfall. The earthquake. His broken ankle and fever. It had all been so overwhelming.

Dean’s hand starts to shake and he clenches it into a fist, relishing the burn caused by pulling at the tender, broken skin of his knuckles.

The hellhound. The shadows. The Careers. Too many possibilities, too much danger, and he was only fifteen and he’d wanted to cry the whole time for his father.

He was a  _ goddamn child _ and he’d been forced to endure that, and really, what child makes good decisions, so it’s not surprising that he failed everyone he’s ever cared about. Not surprising, especially because Dean  _ never _ makes good decisions and he  _ always _ fails the people he wants to protect.

“It was a nightmare I couldn’t wake from,” Dean says quietly.

“And you were a child,” Cas finishes quietly. Without warning, he pulls him into a hug. Dean splutters, trying to pull away, but Cas breathes into his ear, so quiet he can hardly hear, “The whole thing is disgusting. It’s slaughter. None of it was your fault, Dean Winchester, only our President’s, and she’ll get what’s coming to her.”

Shock numbs Dean’s limbs. They become lead weights.  _ Oh my  _ God. “You’re one of  _ them _ .” He recoils. “One of—” One of who? This whole time Dean’s known exactly what Cas is, who he works for. But does he? Does Dean know anything about the escort?

“One of  _ them, _ ” he whispers again. One of the stupid, stupid people that insist on risking Sam’s life, talking about the greater good as if they honestly think Dean gives a  _ shit _ about the greater good. The greater good killed his mother. The greater good killed his sister. Hasn’t he given enough to their stupid cause?

When did this happen? Does Naomi know? Is this another trick?

The questions swirl around Dean’s head and a stupid urge screams at him to trust Cas, that he’s working with the people he’s pretty sure he can trust, even if they don’t really care about him (they just care about the Sword, about the Houndkiller, about the publicity that Dean’s never wanted), but he just stares.

Stares and stares and stares.

He’s lost yet another person. Someone he thought he couldn’t trust but understood, someone whose best interests kept Dean alive and safe and Sam safe too. Yet another person in this stupid, stupid conflict he wants no part of.

“You’ve always known that, Dean,” Cas says sadly. Maybe he thinks that Dean means he’s one of Naomi’s minions. Maybe he thinks that Dean really is that stupid.

Maybe he’s disappointed it took Dean this long to notice his true intentions, even if they were right there under his nose the whole time. Maybe he’s just now noticing how stupid and useless Dean really is.

“Get out.” Dean’s voice wobbles.

“Dean—”

“I said  _ get out _ !” he screams. “Get away from me! Leave me alone!” His face is too hot, eyes stinging too much, brain much too overheated. He wants to rip all his skin off. He wants to stomp his brain under his heel. He wants to go back to yesterday when not everyone had secrets and double meanings and too many lies.

Dean wants Jo.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s screaming.

There is, as there always seems to be, a crowd waiting as he steps off the train. How they know Dean is coming back home when he himself hardly knows is beyond him.

Though Dean doesn’t turn around, he knows that Cas is behind him. It’s the first time his escort has followed him off the train. The realization ruffles his feathers; does Castiel think he’s so fragile that he not only has to keep him company on the train, but also when he’s at home?

The crowd is thankfully oblivious to his inner turmoil. They want him to be the answer to the question they're asking, but there are so many questions in this small crowd, how can he possibly be the answer? Or other districts. How can Dean even  _ pretend _ that he is anything more than a boy in way over his head?

They all stare at him, all these shadowed, tired eyes, all searching for more. They look at him and they see someone that kills hellhounds for fun, not someone that simply wants an intact family. They look at him and they see the answer to their Question, their big Question, the biggest Question of their life.

_ Who will kill Naomi? _ they ask.  _ When will the Games end? Who will stop the slaughter of our children? When will we be safe? _

They ask so many questions. Dean doesn’t know the answers to any of them, but he knows enough to confidently say he’s not the answer to a single question except maybe the simple question Sam asks when he stares at him.

Sam asks  _ You’re still my brother, right? _ And Dean hopes to God the answer is yes.

The crowd ripples and a woman breaks free, coming to a halt in the no-man’s-land between the Victor and the common people. Her hair is a deep auburn. She’s skinny, pretty, and gentle. Dean knows exactly who she is. He’s eaten at her house one time before nearly six years ago. Anna invited him over because she was kind, if a little stiff.

Amy Milton stares at Dean with undisguised hatred. Her husband, Richard Milton, follows in her suit.

Dean takes the posture of a beaten dog running back to his master, begging for a scrap of affection, begging for a scrap of food, because dogs are so kind and sweet and innocent. Until they finally snap and rip their master’s throat out.

And honestly? Good on the dog. Not so good when humans do the same.

His shoulders are slumped, feet turned in. He needs a scrap of forgiveness. He needs an inch taken off his shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

Amy spits at Dean’s feet. He recoils like he’d been slapped.

His Peacekeeper guard presses closer so that no one else can attack him. They bump Castiel into his back but Dean ignores him. The Miltons hesitate, trying to meet Dean’s eyes through the heads and shoulders, but he ignores their gazes. He doesn’t need any more guilt today.

What none of these people seem to understand is that to be a Victor means one is good at killing and surviving. That doesn’t mean they’re good teachers or keeping other people alive. What none of these people understand is that a murderer isn’t the person that’s going to keep them alive. Dean’s going to get them all killed.

Being the Houndkiller simply means Dean is good at killing hellhounds. Being the Flaming Sword simply means that Charlie is a talented genius and stylist. Being alive simply means that Dean is shit at protecting the few people he loves in this world.

The thing that keeps Dean’s thoughts from straying to the bad thoughts is Sam’s hand slipping into his own. “It’s okay, Dean,” he says with that childhood innocence. “They’re just sad.”

“I know,” Dean says heavily. Sad because of him. Because of his failure.

“You couldn’t have done anything,” Sam continues. “There’s no strategy to the Bloodbath except running away from it. They knew what they were doing by running into the fighting.”

There’s that brief glimpse of maturity that unsettles Dean so much. He’s never really sure if Sam understands the inner mechanics of the Hunger Games. Sometimes he’ll say stuff like that and then other times he’ll act as if the deaths don’t matter because he doesn’t personally know the tributes and because it’s shown on the television.

Bobby Singer waits for the brothers a little way away, barely visible through the heads of his bodyguards. Dean steps in his direction and then stops; the hair on his neck raises as he senses someone watching him.

Ellen is the only stationary figure in the crowd, her face unreadable and eyes locked onto Dean’s every move. She doesn’t see Dean Winchester, nineteen year-old boy without a mother. She sees Houndkiller, the person responsible for her daughter’s death.

Dean’s mouth opens, though he’s too far away for her to hear anything he says. He doesn’t even know what he’s about to say.

Ellen spins and walks away.

He’d expected the rejection.

“Hello,” Dean says to Bobby instead. His Peacekeeper guard wraps around the other Victor seamlessly. His tongue feels brittle. “Where’s John?”

The elder Victor shrugs. “I’m not your daddy’s keeper.” He nods behind Dean at the escort.

“Hello,” Castiel greets. Dean stiffens and closes his eyes. Even hearing his voice is overwhelming right now. It makes Dean want to shout at the escort. It makes him want to punch him right in the face. He sounds so  _ innocent _ and  _ nice _ . The worst part is that Castiel is both of those things.

He didn’t deserve for Dean to yell at him. He’s not fighting for the cause that’s trying to hurt Sam; he’s fighting for the cause that’s going to kill the woman that took him away from his parents.

Dean forgets that Castiel has less parents than he does.

Sam starts like he hadn’t even noticed the trenchcoated man. “You’re Castiel, right?” He tugs his hand out of Dean’s grip, eyes large and round as he takes in the escort, looking awestruck even though he’s barely a head shorter than him. Before, Dean had sought to keep Sam away from one of Naomi’s agents. Now he wants to keep Sam away from another rebel.

Seriously, Castiel nods and extends his hand for Sam to shake. “And you are Samuel Winchester. It is very nice to meet you.” Dean relaxes and almost smiles. It’s good that Cas seems to like Sam. Dean doesn’t know why, but it’s good.

Sam narrows his eyes and tilts his head. “You ever had ice cream before?”

Taken aback, Cas shakes his head.

“Uncle Bobby, can we get ice cream?” Sam asks.

Dean frowns.  _ Uncle _ Bobby?

Bobby just shakes his head. “No money right now, Sammy. Besides, I think your brother wants to go home.”

“Dean doesn’t want to go home!” Sam looks at Dean, who shrugs, and he rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“Hey, Winchester!”

Sam and Dean look around.

“Let us through,” someone grunts.

“Let ’em through,” Dean echoes, flicking his hand.

The Peacekeepers part and reveal three children in matching outfits—pressed blue shirts and khaki pants.

“Ketchup?” Dean asks, blinking. “Mickey? Manager?”

Toni Bevelle sighs and rolls her eyes. She’s one of the only girls that’s resistant to his flirting and probably the most hostile girl Dean’s ever met, and he competed against Wendy Igo, certified psychopath.

Ketchup also rolls his eyes at his nickname, but Mickey smiles at Dean. It almost looks like he’s happy to see him.

“You’ve been to maybe a week of school so far this year,” Ketchup says. “And not a single practice.”

“Practice? Practice what— _ oh _ .”

In all honesty, Dean had been losing interest in wrestling for a long time. Sometimes it reminded him too much of being back in the arena, and most other times his competitors were malnourished. Whenever Cas or Charlie insists he practice or work out in the Training Center, he still beats the instructors, but he’s fallen off his training regimen.

John will be able to tell. John can always tell.

“Sectors is this weekend,” Mickey says. That’s right; it’s always the first weekend after the Games starts, as a sort of perverse celebration of the time-honored tradition.

Dean already knows what they want. “Guys, I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure that technically I’m either failing all my classes or expelled. Like you said, Ketchup, I’ve attended maybe a week of school this year. And I can’t compete if I’m expelled.”

Mickey groans. “But what about Hunting Academy and the Lees?”

“You boys talking about wrestling?” Bobby interrupts.

“Yeah,” Dean, Ketchup, Mickey, and Bevelle answer in unison.

Bobby smiles, which makes Dean nervous—but not in a bad way, though he’s not sure that’s possible.

Wait, he’s not nervous. He’s  _ excited _ .

How sick is it that Dean’s forgotten what it feels like to be excited?

“I’m sure we can work something out,” the elder Victor says, rubbing his beard. “Considering you’ve been fulfilling your mentor duties in the Capitol and it’s your senior year. I can talk to your principal.”

“Oh, you don’t need to—” Dean starts.

Bobby waves his hand. “It’ll take your brother off my hands for a bit.” He nudges Sam’s shoulder with his elbow. “It’ll be nice to get a little break from each other, huh, Sam?”

“Bobby, you’ve been watching Sam?” Dean frowns. “Did Dad tell you to?”

“Nah,” Sam answers, shaking his head. “But Bobby saw that Dad was gone so he’s been taking care of me for a few days.”

_ A few days. _

“I’ll see you boys in a bit.” Bobby waves goodbye. The Peacekeepers let him out of the circle and merge together seamlessly.

“How long’s been Bobby taking care of you?” Dean asks, his voice light.

Sam shrugs. “Like, a week or so. But Dad’s been gone longer than that.”

_ And I wasn’t there. Sam had no one. _ “Huh.”

“Our next practice is tomorrow night at six,” Bevelle informs Dean. “You remember how to find the gym, I’m sure?”

Dean’s sure that’s a jab at him, but he can’t quite figure out what about him she’s making fun of. He settles for nodding. “See ya then, Manager. Bye, Ketchup; see you, Mickey.”

Mickey grins and holds out his hand. Dean grips it and pulls the younger boy into a half-hug, clapping his back once before letting go. “Good to have you back, dude.” He actually says it sincerely. It’s… nice.

Ketchup also holds out his hand. Dean pulls him into the same half-hug, albeit a little more reluctantly. Bevelle doesn’t hold out her hand; she watches her brothers with crossed arms. Sam offers her a little wave and she nods back.

“You ever thought of wrestling?” Dean teases when the British triplets leave. John always wanted Sam to continue the wrestling tradition.

Sam rolls his eyes like he always does. “Dean—”

“I know, I know.” Dean frowns. “You’re too busy doing your offseason running workouts. Lord knows why you’d want to run as a sport.” He wants to ask how many of Sam’s track meets he’d missed this season, but it would just depress both brothers. God knows John doesn’t come to Sam’s track meets. Dean resolves to come to all of them next year; Sam hadn’t complained but once that Dean couldn’t make any of them, but he can tell it bothers his younger brother. Especially since this is Sam’s freshman year. Congratulating his brother over the phone for making the team wasn’t how Dean wanted it to happen.

Nothing recently has gone the way Dean wants it to go.

“Running is fun, Dean,” Sam shoots back, shoving him.

“If you’re a psychopath!” Dean snorts a little bit, shoving Sam back.

“I myself enjoy running,” Cas says quietly, speaking up for the first time in a while. Dean finds that he’s a lot less angry with him, but now he’s annoyed that the escort’s taking Sam’s side over his.

Exasperated, Dean throws his hands up. “ _ Why, _ though? It’s like torture.”

“I find it quite relaxing,” Cas shrugs.

Well, there’s one reason that he’s so fit. Then Dean scolds himself for thinking about how fit Cas is. John would be mad if he heard what he’s thinking.

“Please tell me you’re not a health nut like Sam,” Dean settles on teasing.

Sam squawks. “I’m not a  _ health nut _ !”

Dean snorts. “You don’t like bacon, Sam. Sometimes I’m not even sure you’re my brother.” He shakes his head with fake disappointment.

“It’s really fatty,” Sam mutters.

“But it tastes good!”

Sam rolls his eyes but deigns not to argue with his brother anymore; they’re both so stubborn they can go on for hours. In fact there was a time when Sam was about six when he and Dean laid upside down on their bed with their heads hanging off, simply yelling “Yes!” and “No!” at each other while their faces got redder and redder until Sam got too lightheaded.

“I like bacon,” Cas says quietly.

“That’s a relief. I don’t think I could handle two bacon-hating people in my life,” Dean jokes.

“You may leave us,” Castiel says quietly to one of the Peacekeepers flanking the three males.

“But—”

“You may leave us,” Cas repeats, firmer. The Peacekeepers shrug and trickle away, off to terrorize some Road kids or kick cans at stray cats. Dean doesn’t know. They’re probably doing something bad. Maybe they’re plotting to kill John and Sam in a house fire, and if that doesn’t work again they’ll bring them to the white room and—

“Dean, you okay?” Sam interrupts, squeezing his hand.

“Huh?” Dean looks down at his brother, who shrugs. “Yeah, I’m good.” He squeezes Sam’s hand when he feels his grip loosening like he wants to pull away. Sam’s still so small, even though he’s only a year younger than Dean was when he competed in the Games. He’s always been smaller than Dean, even when comparing them at the same age. He’ll never be big enough to compete.

Kids aren’t  _ supposed _ to compete. Not in the Games.

“Is that your father, Dean?”

Dean jerks his head in the direction Cas is pointing. He’s right. It  _ is _ John. Standing there in the middle of the road, watching them without a hint of emotion on his face. Like he’s completely innocent and has nothing to answer for.

It’s nice to see him. It is. Even if he’s being a bad father. And he’s being a  _ really _ bad father.

Sam lifts his hand to wave and John turns on his heel, striding away towards their house. “Maybe he didn’t see us,” Sam suggests, disappointment audible.

“I bet he didn’t,” Dean lies, squeezing his hand again. “He’ll be so happy to see you when we get home.” He turns his head halfway to look at Castiel, who still stands half a step behind them. “Are you still coming?”

Cas shrugs.

“All right.”

Sam drops Dean’s hand just before stepping into the building. Dean’s hot on his heels. “Sammy,” John says warmly. “Dean. It’s good to see you boys.”

“Hey, Dad.” Sam smiles and hugs their dad around the middle. Dean crosses his arms and glares when John holds his hand out.

“Can we talk?” Dean asks through gritted teeth.

“Of course.”

Dean nods and strides into the bedroom. John looks taken aback, but he shoots Sam another smile and follows him.

Now Sam and Cas are in the same room alone. It feels awkward. It’s more awkward when voices start to rise in the other room.

“This happens a lot,” Sam says when the silence starts to feel suffocating. “They’ll be done soon.”

Cas nods and sits down on the couch. He’s quite used to ignoring sounds from other rooms. Surviving in the Capitol relies on discretion. He couldn’t even count the number of times he’s had to keep a level voice in conversation with someone important whilst hearing sounds of arrest from a room nearby.

“WELL THAT’S YOUR OWN DAMN FAULT FOR BEING AWAY SO MUCH!” John roars.

Castiel flinches. Sam coughs.

“YOU THINK I WANT TO SPEND ALL MY FREE TIME IN THE CAPITOL?” Dean bellows back.

“So you run track for your school?” Cas asks politely.

“I HAVE IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO AND YOU—”

Sam nods. “Did you run track, too? Since you like to run so much?”

“MORE IMPORTANT THAN TAKING CARE OF YOUR SON?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Cas responds. “I transferred to the Capitol before I ever reached high school in District 1.”

“AND YOU THINK YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN TAKING CARE OF YOUR BROTHER, THEN?”

“I didn’t know you were born in District 1,” Sam says. “You’ve got dark hair.”

“I’VE BEEN TAKING CARE OF SAM FOR YEARS—”

Cas shrugs. “We lived farther from the Justice Building than some with lighter hair.”

“THAT’S YOUR RESPONSIBILITY AS HIS BROTHER!”

“So what schools does the Capitol have?”

“—AND IT WOULD BE NICE IF YOU COULD PULL YOUR OWN WEIGHT AND NOT ABANDON HIM THE SECOND I LEAVE! AS MUCH AS YOU TRY TO FORGET IT, YOU HAVE A SON—”

Cas opens his mouth to tell Sam that private tutoring is available to all in the Capitol on their tablets for only thirty minutes a day (some parents are petitioning to have the minimum lowered to fifteen minutes because it’s been cutting into extracurricular time, apparently), but there’s the sound of flesh on flesh and a harsh intake of air. Something shatters in the room and he’s on his feet because whenever something shatters when Dean’s in a room it’s never good. He unwillingly flashes back to entering Dean’s compartment and seeing him on the ground, blood and flesh around him. He’d looked so  _ dead _ . And sometimes, even when Dean is awake and healed and speaking clearly, he looks even more dead.

The door slams open and John storms out, shaking his hand.

“Dad, wait!” John doesn’t stop or turn around. “Dean, are you okay?” Sam calls, rising.

“Just fine, Sammy,” Dean calls back, terse. “I tripped and fell. Don’t come in yet, okay? There’s glass on the ground and I don’t want you to step on it.”

Sam nods and settles back on the couch, but Cas doesn’t trust Dean whenever he says he’s fine. He grabs the trash can and tells Sam to get him a broom before entering the bedroom. Dean kneels on the ground, his back to the door, and he doesn’t really look like he’s cleaning. Small shards of glass litter the ground in front of him.

“I told you to stay—”

“I brought you a can,” Cas interrupts.

Sam coughs. “I got the broom.” He hands it to Cas and glances between the two men before backing away.

“You can just put those by me,” Dean mutters. He still doesn’t turn to face Cas. The escort takes a step closer, glass crunching under his shoes, until he can see Dean’s hands. He’s holding a large piece of glass.

“If you have glass in your knees,” Cas jokes, “I’ll probably murder you.”

“Ha-ha.” Dean doesn’t sound amused in the slightest. “You seriously don’t need to help clean, Cas. I’m sure Sam can get you anything you want.”

“It’s no bother.” Dean still doesn’t turn to face him. “Dean, really. Kneeling in front of the mess isn’t really going to clean it up, now is it?”

“Hand me the broom, then,” Dean grunts. He holds out his hand, presumably for Cas to put the handle in it, but Cas grabs the extended arm and pulls him up, twisting him around. Before Dean can hide it, he sees that blood is leaking out of his nose and his eye is swollen.

Blood rushes in Cas’s ears but, as always, his voice is level. “What happened to you?”

“I fell,” Dean grunts. “Headfirst. Into the wall.”

Like Cas believes that. Dean’s not  _ that _ clumsy. He’s quite graceful, actually, especially when wrestling. Cas’s eyes narrow. “Dean…”

“I  _ fell _ ,” Dean repeats louder, “into the  _ wall _ , Cas.”

And Cas remembers the ‘rope burns’ around Dean’s wrists three years ago. And he remembers John shaking his hand as he walked out of the house not two minutes ago.

“This is… not acceptable.”


	8. Dae Mon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that commented—I had fun reading them all even if I didn't respond to them (though I did try to respond to them all). Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter, as always, please leave a comment!

_ then _

Dean winces with pain as he twists around, trying to apply lotion to the scar on his back. It’s still puckered and ugly, not to mention painful.

He’s not even sure why the scars he got from the Games seem so much uglier than the scars he’d gotten from his regular life, but they are. Perhaps because regular life cut him in very small increments so that the scars are small and almost unnoticeable, like the numerous scars most people have, but the Games’ scars are obvious. They can only be fixed with Capitol technology; a concept which Dean hates even more than the scars themselves.

His clicking ankle, for example, can be wrapped in a sound-muffling brace to keep it stable and quiet. He was offered one tailored specifically for his foot so as to reduce the amount of motion that would be limited, but he’d refused. Who cares about a little clicking, anyway? It’s not like it hurts.

Dean regrets that decision now. It’s hard to sneak around during the night when every step gives him away.

And the matching scars on his right side Dean hates with a passion. The puckered skin isn’t something he likes to look at. Whenever he does he remembers the panic of the arena and Constance’s words: “I just want to go home.” Isn’t that what she’d said? Something like that, at least; he’s too much of a coward to watch the footage of his own Games. The specifics of words and faces are beginning to fade, which is both a relief and a source of anxiety. Not to mention breathing too deeply stretches them.

The hellhound scratch on his arm is still long, puffier at the top and thinner as it reaches his elbow, so that it looks like a mutated skeleton’s hand. It is a good thing Dean has always preferred long sleeves. He’s gotten used to wearing them year-round. Many people in District 5 do, anyway, seeing as how the hydroelectric dam is breezy no matter what season it is, and that is where most men and women in the Victor sector work if they’re not shopkeepers or full-time parents.

The hellhound scratch tingles cold and Dean shivers. The lotion always makes his scars tingle.

He twists again, breathing deep and braced against a sting. A knock on the door makes Dean jump. The handle twists and, before Dean can tell the intruder to stop, Cas is in the room.

“Good morning, Dean,” he says briskly. He’s carrying two boxes in his arms and hasn’t seen Dean standing shirtless in front of the mirror yet. “It’s taken you quite long enough to wake up, wouldn’t you say? You’re bound to be late if you take much longer.”

“Cas, knocking isn’t an invitation to enter,” Dean hisses, flushing scarlet as Castiel sets the boxes down and looks at Dean, then narrows his eyes. “Me saying you can enter is an invitation to enter.”

“If I followed that rule, I’d never be allowed in.”

“If you wanted to see me shirtless, you only needed to ask,” Dean jokes nervously. Cas’s electric blue eyes staring at his shoulder both makes him want to cover up and has some alien feeling stirring deep in his gut.

“That is quite a large scar,” Cas finally replies. Without warning, he steps forward and places his hand on the scar. “It’s larger than my hand.”

There’s a swooping sensation in Dean’s stomach like he’s falling down a staircase. The escort’s fingers are cold.

“Does it… hurt… when I touch it?”

Dean frowns, considering. He can feel the pressure of Cas’s fingers on the skin, but not as keenly if the escort was touching regular skin. “I don’t… think so. No. Pressure isn’t uncomfortable.”

“It’s quite strange to look at,” the escort comments.

Dean’s stomach clenches. Of course. He’s only marveling at the freak Victor who wouldn’t let them cut pieces of skin off Avoxes and attach them to himself. He’s only marvelling at the freak Victor who didn’t even have to put up much of a fight because for some reason Naomi had told Charlie that it wasn’t important, that he could keep the scars if he wanted them.

Dean dips his head and turns away. “What’s the suit today?”

“You misunderstand.” Castiel grabs Dean’s hand. “Strange isn’t always bad. I don’t find them repulsive to look at, Dean.”

Dean huffs. That’s a very low bar, now, isn’t it?

“They don’t have to be beautiful,” the escort continues. “But they enhance you.”

Abruptly, he pulls out the suit Dean must wear with a practiced flourish. ‘Suit’ seems like a generous term. The jacket’s material is thin, satiny, and ocean-blue. The shirt is a sheer white. The pants are made out of the same thin material as the jacket but they are a much darker blue that could look black. If they cling to Dean’s legs the outline of his boxers will most likely be visible, but the alternative to that is not one Dean wants to consider.

It’s not quite as bad as the stiff white suit but it definitely doesn’t appeal to Dean. Still, it’s better than being shirtless, so Dean accepts the offered garments without complaint and rushes to the bathroom to escape Cas’s inscrutable gaze.

The pants don’t cling. Thank God. Dean lets out a deep sigh once the outfit is on, leaning his weight on the sink and gazing at himself in the mirror. There are bags under his eyes. Quite large ones, too. No doubt they’ll be covered up by the makeup team waiting for him who-knows-where. Dean’s cheekbones are also prominent. It’s not for lack of nutrition; he’s not refused anything in the Capitol.

It makes him look adult.

Dean really doesn’t want to leave the bathroom and see Castiel just yet. Sometimes the escort can be quite daft. He still doesn’t understand how awkward it is whenever Dean wakes up and Castiel is in his room.

He doesn’t have a choice. Castiel knocks on the door. “Dean? Your prep team is here.”

They come in, all bright colors, and they all appreciate his outfit. Thankfully they don’t feel the need to do more than put powder in his face and style his hair before pushing him out the door, squealing. Dean’s buffeted on their enthusiasm, almost smiling, before a hand around his arm stops him still.

Dean can feel the pressure of Castiel’s fingers through the shirt. “Good luck,” his escort says quietly.

Breathless, Dean just nods. Does Castiel know that the way his mouth shapes words is pleasing to look at?

Dean flushes red and jerks away.

He doesn’t even remember what he says. All he remembers is a teenager standing with Mary Worthington’s family. Mary was pale with dark hair, and so is her family, but this boy has dark skin. Dean knows, instinctively, this is the boyfriend Mary talked so long about during her interview with Andy Gallagher. His eyes are puffy and he’s glaring at Dean like he was the one to kill Mary. Really, he killed her killer.

It doesn’t matter to either grieving boy.

* * *

_ now _

“You’ve  _ got _ to be kidding me.”

Dean holds up this year’s wrestling uniform, examining it in the 4:30 a.m. light which is, admittedly, not very bright. At all.

Sam flicks the bedroom light on. “It’s not  _ that _ bad.”

Dean snorts. The pattern is even more terrible in the light. “I know MOL’s colors are red and blue, but come on, Sam. This is a new low.” He turns the tie-dyed uniform around, holding it next to his body. “Tie-dye, Sam!  _ Tie-dye! _ I can’t wrestle in this!”

Sam presses his hand to his mouth to hide his smile. “Yeah, it’s… definitely worse than our track suits.”

“I’m not going,” Dean declares. “I can’t, Sammy. Look at this. I’d rather be caught dead than wear this. No wonder everyone was being so secretive about the uniforms. They knew I’d never agree if I saw them.”

“Stop being so dramatic.” Sam rolls his eyes. “This is your last ever season, Dean. Besides, HA will wipe out the senior boy’s section if you don’t compete.”

Dean blinks at Sam. “You don’t know anything about wrestling.”

Sam blushes. “I listen to Mitch and Ketch talking. They sit with me at lunch now.”

Dean grumbles. “They’ve been pains in my ass for years. I really wish Coach had let me ban middle schoolers from practicing with us. They would’ve been so much less annoying. Please don’t let them make you annoying.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Just put on your uniform. We’re going to be late for the bus.”

“And wouldn’t that be a shame.”

“Ten minutes!” Sam slams the door behind him and stampedes down the stairs just as the doorbell rings. He knows just who it is. Sure enough, it’s the British triplets. Bevelle is wearing the wrestling jacket, same as her brothers, but she wears a skirt while her brothers wear sweatpants.

“Good, you’re awake. Is he ready?”

Sam shakes his head. “We spent twenty minutes arguing about the suit.”

Bevelle snorts. “Last year’s senior managers decided on the pattern,  _ not _ me.”

“We’re never going to live it down,” Mitch groans.

“The bus leaves in twenty minutes,” Ketch says.

Sam rolls his eyes. “We’re well aware.”

Mitch coughs. “We, uh, asked Coach if you could ride the bus with us. He said as long as you don’t get in anyone’s way—”

Sam beams and bounces on the balls of his feet. “So I gotta pack myself lunch now. See you guys on the bus.” He waves and shuts the door.

“This is  _ humiliating _ !” Dean shouts from the bedroom.

“Just put it on!” Sam yells back. “You’re going to wake up Uncle Bobby and we’re going to miss the bus!”

“So you’re coming?” Dean says from the top of the stairs. His jacket is slung over his shoulder, exposing the ugly skin-tight wrestling suit from the waist up. At least he’s wearing sweatpants. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth. Did you pack your lunch? Do you have a jacket?”

“I already did, I’m doing that right now, and I’ll get my track jacket from the house on the way.”

“Okay, just don’t forget.” Dean checks his wrestling bag and pulls out his empty water cooler. “You could wear my wrestling jacket if you wanted. Look like one of us.” He takes the cooler to the fridge and sets it on the ground.

“Or a manager.” Sam shrugs. “You probably want to keep your jacket on to hide the tie-dye, though.”

Dean shrugs and dumps the ice bucket into the cooler. “Don’t blame me when you get beat up. You remember Ted Nugent, the sophomore?”

Sam shakes his head. Dean turns on the faucet and leans against the fridge as he fills up his first water bottle; his favorite blue bottle. “Well, his girlfriend slept with Hector Aframian.”

“Seriously?” Sam freezes in the action of putting his sandwich in a paper bag. “ _ Hector _ ? His 5k is thirty minutes! And he’s a  _ senior _ !”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugs and screws the cap on of the blue bottle and pulls out the yellow one. “Besides, wrestling doesn’t like track as a general policy.”

Sam unfreezes and puts a baggie of potato chips in the bag on top of the sandwich. “At least we’re not tennis,” he points out.

Dean puts the yellow bottle in his bag and picks up the third and final bottle. It’s green and doesn’t retain coolness very well, which is why he has the cooler. “I’d have to disown you if you wanted to play tennis.” He shoulders the bag and claps Sam on the shoulder. Before picking up his sack lunch, he drops something around Sam’s head. “You’ll have to hold onto that for me.”

Sam nods and grips the amulet for a moment before grabbing his lunch and shoes. “We have fifteen minutes. We need to hurry!”

“We’re not in that big of a rush,” Dean argues back, but follows as he dashes out the door.

District 5 could almost be a whole different place at night. A few stray animals prowl the streets, and the only people that are awake are a few Peacekeepers. It’s dark, quiet, and peaceful. Dean prefers it this way, rather than the curious gazes he can never escape when the others are awake.

He stalls outside his old house as Sam rushes in to grab his jacket.

“Well, well, aren’t you boys up early.”

Dean’s whole body stiffens and his stomach drops. To his right stands a masked Peacekeeper, but he would recognize that voice anywhere. He’s heard it enough in his nightmares. What he did is impossible to forget.

“What the hell do you want?”

The house’s door slams and Sam bounds down the steps, jolting to a halt when he sees the masked figure. The Peacekeeper takes off his mask, revealing golden eyes that make Dean’s stomach curdle, but to his surprise Sam beams.

“Hi, Mr. Azazel!”

Azazel winks at Sam. He  _ winks _ at him. “I was just telling your brother that it’s not always safe to be walking out in these streets at this hour.”

“We’re going to Dean’s wrestling tournament,” Sam explains.

Azazel smiles. “I see.”

“What do you  _ want _ ?” Dean asks again, shifting between his brother and the Peacekeeper.

“Dean!” Sam whispers. “Don’t be  _ rude _ .”

“Just warning you two about the dangers of being alone.”

“I don’t think Sam has much to worry about,” Dean snarls. “I’m with him, aren’t I?”

“Oh, but Dean-o, you seem to have a nasty streak of losing some of the people closest to you, don’t you?” Azazel bares his teeth in a grin.

Dean drops his bag and takes an angry step forward but Sam tugs on his arm and plants his heels in the ground, not that he can do much to hold his brother back if Dean really wanted to fight. “That may be so but don’t you go thinking you’d be able to beat me again, you son of a—”

“ _ Dean _ !” Sam exclaims, scandalized.

Azazel doesn’t take his eyes away from Dean’s as he says, “I suppose that aggressive behavior will be well used during your competition, won’t it?”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Dean leans forward, his eyes slits. “There’s always some left over for you.”

Azazel smiles mysteriously and pulls his mask back on over his head. “Good luck at your competition. Sam, maybe you should work on getting your brother some new manners.” He turns on his heel.

“That’s it, you son of a bitch—” Dean surges forward and Sam wraps his arms around his middle.

“Dean! We’re going to miss the bus!”

Azazel strolls down the street, whistling gently. Dean’s chest heaves, his fists clenched as he watches him go.

“What is your  _ problem _ ?” Sam asks with disbelief once he determines the threat is over. “I get Mr. Azazel was being a bit rude, but—”

“He knows exactly what he did, that son of a bitch,” Dean hisses, still not taking his eyes off of the leaving figure. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to crush his skull in my bare hands. I’m going to—”

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam pushes him so hard he stumbles, which is no easy feat.

“We never told you,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair and swiping his bag up from the ground. “Knew it wasn’t right for a kid to hear. But you should know. After Mary—”

“This has something to do with Mom?”

“Nearly fifteen years ago.” Dean shakes his head and mutters something else under his breath.

Even though he’s never been answered before, Sam has to know. “What else do you remember about that night?”

“I remember the fire. The Peacekeepers.” Dean hesitates. “I remember carrying you out of the building.”

An odd feeling, warm and heavy like honey, starts in Sam’s chest. “Really?”

“Yeah. You never knew that?”

“You and Dad never talk about it.” Sam bites his lip, hoping Dean will take the hint and say more, but his older brother shakes his head and starts off in the direction of the school. “Wait! Hold up!”

The rest of the team is waiting to get onto the bus by the time they get there. The wrestling coach, James Hetfield, lets out an audible sigh of relief when he sees the boys approaching and signals for the bus driver to open the doors. The boys all cheer when they see Dean approach, calling out things like “Winchester’s here!” and “That’s my boy!”

“You’re going to wake the whole neighborhood,” Mr. Hetfield hisses. “Just get in.”

“Took you long enough,” Ketchup quips when they’re within earshot.

“Shut up, Ketchup,” Dean replies instantly.

Mr. Hetfield frowns and reminds him that those aren’t ‘team words’.

“Sorry, James.”

Sam boards the bus directly after his brother and follows him to the back, stopping only when Dean stops to clap the bus driver on the shoulder and call him Mark.

“Not my name,” the bus driver calls over his shoulder.

“You got it, Michael!” Dean says back.

“You know how he is, David,” Mr. Hetfield mutters.

“Sure do, James.” The bus driver raises his voice. “Are we all ready to go?”

The boys yell and pound the sides of the bus and the seats.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Stay sitting the whole time, don’t stick limbs out the windows, et cetera. You’ve all heard the safety presentation before. Just don’t be stupid!”

“Fat luck with that,” a beefy heavyweight with curly hair mutters. He raises his voice and yells, “Dustin, I dare you to—”

“Jerry Wanek!” Mr. Hetfield bellows. “Don’t you  _ dare _ dare Dustin to do anything or I will suspend you for the rest of the season!”

Sam sniggers.

“I bet your track bus rides aren’t nearly as much fun as this, are they, Sammy?” Dean asks just as someone in the front chucks a whole orange right into a redheaded boy’s face for standing up to yell something to the coach.

“We are… definitely not like  _ this _ ,” Sam replies, watching with wide eyes as the whole vehicle explodes into chaos. It must be the girls on the track team that keep the boys in check.

About an hour into the bus ride, the yelling finally dies down, letting Mr. Hetfield and the bus driver converse in low voices in the front. Jerry Wanek snores louder than the bus’ engine just a few feet away from Sam and Dean, keeping his seatmate awake and annoyed. A dark-skinned boy with short-cropped hair reads a book propped up by his sleeping seatmate’s arm.

Dean turns around in his seat. The triplets are all asleep. Mickey is slumped against the window and Toni’s head rests on his shoulder. Ketchup sits straight, his neck exposed as his head lolls back.

Next to Dean, Sam tries valiantly to stay awake, but his eyelashes are fluttering and he keeps nodding off. Dean wishes he had a camera right now to record Sam’s head bobbing up and down.

Moments like this… he knows why he did it, that’s all. That period of unbridled terror and pain was worth it.

Unfortunately, unlike almost everyone else on this bus, Dean is wide awake.

Bobby broke into his house three days ago and stole every bottle. Dean had been worried about the old man trying to drink himself to death for about thirty seconds until his weekly shipment didn’t come in and he was told it had been canceled.

Dean had not canceled the shipment.

Sure, Bobby’s trying to do him good, blah blah blah, Dean’s liver is going to shit, blah blah blah. There was also food on that shipment. Because of Bobby, Dean had to go  _ shopping _ .

Okay, maybe he’s being dramatic. But he was pissed. He’s  _ still _ pissed. Even if Bobby had gone out of his way to make sure Dean is eligible for this competition. Because now whenever Dean wants to go to sleep, he wakes up countless times during the night, heart racing, convinced there’s somebody coming to kill him. There’s no easy blackout option.

Forty-five minutes of quiet later, the MOL bus arrives at the school hosting this year’s Sectors: HA. Their school is squatter than MOL but longer. Dean knows from experience that the school looks even worse on the inside, but this sector also has some of the best wrestlers this district has ever seen.

Dean nudges Sam awake before twisting to whack Ketchup on the head. “Up and at ‘em, boys. We’re here.”

Sam yawns and rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven,” Dean replies briskly. “And the competition starts at nine.”

“Why did we have to get here so early, again?” Sam asks through a large yawn. “If we have so long to wait.”

“Warmups,” Dean answers, standing up as everyone else does. “Setup. Come on, let’s go.” He stretches his right leg as the boys trickle out of the bus and start to talk again, savoring the stretch after so long sitting. By the time he’s out, Jerry Wanek and Dustin Burwash are on the ground tussling and Mr. Hetfield still hasn’t noticed.

“You’re going to tire yourselves out before the competition,” another senior, Nigel Tufnel, comments with his arms crossed.

“We’re warming up,” Jerry chokes out. Dustin’s got his arm wrapped around his neck.

“If you kill Jerry you’re going to get in so much trouble,” another worried looking sophomore squeaks. Dean thinks his name is John Bonham or something like that. He’s a good wrestler but his personalities on and off the mat are very different.

“All right, we can go in!” Mr. Hetfield calls, beckoning the group over.

Reluctantly, Jerry taps on Dustin’s arm and he lets him go, smiling. “Aw, shit, man,” Jerry complains. “You ripped my fucking pants!”

Sam winces at the foul language and looks at Mr. Hetfield like he’ll care. When Jerry was a freshman he did, Dean remembers, but he got so beaten down by Jerry’s foul mouth that he’s pretty much used to it.

Mr. Hetfield just sighs and rolls his eyes. “We don’t have all day, gentlemen! We need to warm up, so get your asses over here!”

Sam moves to jog over with the boys, but Bevelle grabs his arm and pulls him in the opposite direction. “We’ve got work to do.”

* * *

Wrestling meets are fairly straightforward. There are fourteen weight classes, which are the maximum weights each person in that class can be. The first weight class is 106 pounds, and then 113, 120, 126, 132, 138, 145, 152, 160, 170, 182, 195, 220, and finally 285. Most of the time, the referees pick cards from a deck that has fourteen cards to represent the fourteen classes and whatever card is picked is the first match. One person from each school in that class would wrestle, and the meet would continue from lightest to heaviest.

At Sectors, however, to prevent confusion as much as possible, the meet starts at the lightest weight class and proceeds to the heavyweights. There are about eight teams competing so there are four matches for each class. Matches are determined by the school’s winning streak. Thankfully MOL and HA generally have similar streaks, so every MOL wrestler will be wrestling their counterpart from HA.

If Dean isn’t mistaken, he’s a heavyweight now. Eating at the Capitol shot him from the 182 class all the way to 285 last year, where he weighed in at 250 pounds. Considering he’s only just started weaning off beer, there shouldn’t be much danger of taking him out of the heavyweight class. That means his opponent will be Lee Bender. He’s almost disappointed he doesn’t get to wrestle against Lee Webb again; his sophomore year Webb beat him at Sectors but lost in their HA versus MOL meet. It would seem that their rivalry will end in a stalemate.

Bender’s a worthy enough opponent, though. Dean beat him at Sectors last year and at the smaller two-school meet, but he’s definitely not easy to get a win over.

He mulls over the appropriate strategy to use as he stretches. Since HA is hardly fancy, teams get to sit in the hallways around the wrestling room when one of their members aren’t wrestling. It means Dean gets to admire the unfinished ceilings exposing pipes and wiring, the lights hanging so low he has to duck to avoid them, and how half of the lockers lining both sides of the walls are missing their doors, or only have parts of them.

“Gene, go see how much longer,” John Bonham orders. He checks his watch. “We’ve been here for an hour. It’s nearly time for the meet to  _ start _ .”

Gene Simmons hops to his feet and lopes to the wrestling room, where he knocks on the door.

“Where’d your sister take my brother?” Dean asks Ketchup, who’s trying to touch his toes.

“They’re helping document the weights of teams without managers,” Mickey answers after Ketchup simply shrugs. Yet another reason Dean likes Mickey better. “And HA’s two points ahead of us, right?”

Dean nods. “If we want to be in the running for Districts we need to win this whole meet by at least three points. Two points will make us tied.”

“It’s our turn to weigh in!” Gene Simmons calls down the hall, prompting the team to hop up. “Seniors first!”

“Did you guys hear that Lee Bender weighed in at 276?” Dean thinks he hears someone behind him say. His stomach drops. He may not know his exact weight, but he knows he’s not anywhere close to 276 pounds. And after so much hassle Bobby went through in order to get him qualified for this meet, Dean can’t afford to lose.

Dean steps onto the scale, fingers crossed for anywhere in the 240s or 250s. The numbers blink 00.00 for five seconds before changing to 269.69. He exhales with relief and a bit of surprise before stepping off the scale. Sam smiles and waves at him. Toni writes down the numbers.

“You guys almost done?”

“Yeah. We’re last to weigh in.” Toni writes down Nigel Tufman’s weight. “Bender’s just about 280 pounds. Just in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Dean fibs. “Not worried at all.”

Toni lifts her eyes off the paper for hardly a second. “Uh-huh.”

“Did you know that Abbadon doesn’t even have a wrestling team?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head and shrugs. “They had too many seniors last year, I guess, and no underclassmen. I’m sure they’ll have one next year.”

The last MOL wrestler, that just so happens to be Mickey, steps off the scale.

“Hey,” Toni says casually. “I keep forgetting to ask. What happened to your tongue?”

Sam drops the clipboard he’d been holding. Somehow Mickey ends up on the ground. Mr. Hetfield slams the door behind him, and the two freshmen talking by the door go deathly silent.

“It didn’t happen in the arena, is all,” Toni continues, tucking her clipboard under her arm and sticking the pencil behind her ear.

Mickey starts, “Maybe we should all—”

Dean sticks his stunted tongue out of his mouth, going cross-eyed as he tries to look at it. “Why? You considering the look?”

Sam sucks in a ragged breath and Dean looks at him weird. Why’s he making it such a big deal? His tongue is a fact of life. Why did everyone act like it’s a taboo topic, anyway?

“It was just an accident,” he continues when nobody responds. “Not a big deal.”

“Let’s get out,” Sam squeaks. “We don’t want to hold up the meet.”

* * *

The referee blows his whistle and slaps the mat three times. Trembling, Dean lets go of Lee Bender, who rolls off of him immediately. The boys lie on the mat, breathing heavily, until Dean processes the cheering and looks up.

“Fall!” the referee bawls.

The mat’s swarmed with boys that pull Dean up on his sore legs. “That was amazing!” he hears, along with “Nice going!” and “Six team points!”

Despite the exhaustion, Dean nods at his opponent, who nods back, and allows the flood of MOL boys to carry him out of the room, where officials are putting the rankings on the wall.

_ Abbadon Academy- N/A _

_ District 5 High School- 129 _

_ Victory High School- 138 _

_ Raphael Starde Academy- 163 _

_ Founders High School- 192 _

_ Justice High School- 201 _

_ Hunting Academy- 211 _

_ Men of Letters High School- 214 _

Dean reads the list once, twice, and just to be safe a third time.

Someone grabs his arm and shakes it. “We’re going to Districts!”


	9. Joanna Harvelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: At the end of this chapter is a very slight reference to forced prostitution because we thought the Capitol could not get any worse. Do not read if this will trigger you. However, it is just as graphic as when Eileen and Dean discussed it in the Roadhouse bathroom—as in, not at all. It will become more graphic in later chapters, but I will never describe the actual action; I do not write smut as I am underage. By graphic, I mean that Dean will think about the specific partners he's had while at the Capitol, but the most I will do with that is describe his reluctance, entering the room, and the outrageous clothing his partners wear. No character will describe the events in detail. If this offends or triggers you, please do not read further or read with caution as I tried to make it as implied as possible. I did take a bit of this d-plotline from Finnick's story in the Hunger Games where he was forced into sexual slavery by the Capitol, but this fic will not take it anywhere close to that level.

_now_

“‘M fine, Cas.”

Dean stares into the bathroom mirror. His right eye twitches.

“I’ve definitely been sleeping.”

He looks like he’s got two black eyes. Dean touches the shadowed skin under his right eye with tentative fingers, but it’s not a bruise so it doesn’t hurt. He can feel the bone underneath the soft skin. When he lets the fingers rest there, his whole hand starts to shake. Dean clenches his fist.

There are lines underneath his eyes, too, like his lower lids are sagging with exhaustion. Dean’s so tired… he could fall asleep standing in front of this mirror…

“Dean?” Cas’s tinny voice asks through the phone.

Dean jerks up, his heart racing momentarily. “Yep! Yep, I’m here, bud. What’s up?”

“I just asked you a question,” Cas prompts.

Dean sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I, uh…”

A little annoyed sigh comes through the phone. Dean’s stomach jumps. “You could at least _try_ to sleep without alcohol for once.”

Dean scowls. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” the escort replies dryly. “I just asked when you’re coming back.”

He sighs and drags a hand down his face. “Soon, I assume. Naomi doesn’t like me to spend too long without making a public appearance and stirring the Capitol’s enthusiasm. I trust that she’ll at least give me until Gregory Washington wins.” He says it pointedly, sure that if Naomi isn’t listening to their conversation right now, surely one of her minions is.

“Who?”

“The District 9 boy tribute.” Dean leans against the sink and rolls his shoulders. “Everyone knows he’s going to win. Have you seen him? He’s the size of a truck.”

“I shall see,” Cas says cryptically.

“See what?”

“If you might not have to throw a party when you come next. It would heighten anticipation for your next visit and make the party seem more exclusive. Besides, you might say you’re doing it out of respect for the tributes who’ve given their lives during this year’s Hunger Games.”

“Cas, you’re a saint,” Dean breathes without thinking.

“Perhaps I’ll be able to visit with you without you being drunk as you can be.” Dean can picture him on the other end of the line, still wearing that weird trenchcoat that makes him look so blocky. He’s sitting stiffly in a fluffy Capitol chair and his face is stern, but one corner of his mouth turns up whenever he says something with an ‘h’ sound. It makes him look cheerful and— _wait, no, what am I thinking?_

Without thinking, Dean vows, “If you manage ’o save me from another fuckin’ party I’ll cook you dinner, Cas.”

“Dinner?” He sounds delighted. Way too delighted when it’s simply the offer of dinner.

Dean glances into the mirror and sees that his neck and ears are turning red. He does feel warm. Is he coming down with a fever? “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he says shortly. “To pay you back for you cooking me breakfast that one time.”

“And no alcohol,” the escort adds.

Dean scoffs. “What the hell else are we supposed to drink? Apple juice?”

Cas coughs. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Water?”

“Whatever.”

“Consider it done.” The escort sounds much too pleased with himself. It brings a smile to Dean’s face.

“Sure. Thanks. Talk to you later?”

“Of course. Should I call you or…” Dammit, now Dean can picture him cocking his head as he asks the question.

“You call me,” Dean says quickly. “You’ve probably got meetings and stuff. Important stuff that I shouldn’t interrupt.”

“Nothing more important than you,” Cas responds earnestly.

Another glimpse in the mirror reveals that Dean’s ears have not lost their pink hue. “Sure. Whatever. Talk to you later, huggy bear.” He frowns at himself in the mirror and hangs up as quickly as he can. “ _Huggy bear?_ ” Dean asks his reflection. “What the fuck?”

Sam pounds on the door and Dean jumps, adrenaline flooding his body before his brother calls through the wood, “You done with your boyfriend?”

Dean’s hand shakes as he unlocks the door and yanks it open. “Don’t be stupid, Sam.” _And please,_ he begs internally, _don’t say that in front of Dad._ He hopes Sam didn’t hear him calling Cas huggy bear—and what the fuck of a nickname is that, anyway?

Dean seriously needs to sleep.

But he can’t do that because Bobby stopped all his alcohol shipments. There’s nothing in John’s house because he’s literally never here anymore. Wherever he hangs out now is where he must stash his booze.

“You didn’t miss much,” Sam informs him. “We just watched the last girl pick berries and stuff.”

“No nightlock?”

“That wouldn’t be violent enough, I’m sure,” Sam shrugs. “What did Cas say?”

“Nothing important.” Dean grunts as he flops down on the couch. “I don’t think the program will be very interesting for the rest of the day, Sammy. We already got that chase and both District 11 tributes died, so they’re probably not going to force another confrontation until at least tomorrow afternoon.”

Sam flips over the back of the couch, his feet landing on Dean’s stomach. “Yeah, but it’s cool to watch.”

Dean can’t argue with that. It’s fun to watch until you remember it’s real-life people dying on the screen.

“Besides,” Sam continues, “it’s what Dad’s preparing us for.”

“You’re never going to be reaped,” Dean vows instantly.

“I already was,” Sam shrugs. “I don’t think you’d be allowed to volunteer for me again.”

“You’re not going to get reaped again.”

“It’s just a game of luck.”

 _Oh, if only._ That would make Dean’s life so much easier.

“Hey!” Sam says suddenly, making Dean wince. He points at the TV screen. “Look. He’s hunting that rat.”

Dean huffs slightly. “Seriously? A rat? That’s such a waste of energy.”

“That’s pretty much all that’s left. Apart from some birds.” Sam shoots Dean a look. “I bet you could catch all the rats. You’re, like, so good at setting traps.”

Dean’s chest goes warm with pleasure. Sitting here with Sam he feels safe. Sam pulls a blanket over both of them, making sure to kick Dean as he does it, and Dean slouches even lower. Before he knows it, he’s practically lying down on the couch, facing the ceiling so he doesn’t have to look at the TV screen. His eyelids are so heavy.

* * *

They’re taking her again and Dean can’t save her—

“JO!”

Something’s grabbing him! Something’s holding him down! Something’s—oh God he’s _falling_ —

Dean hits the ground so hard his teeth rattle. He jolts up, heart pounding, and sees Sam hunched over and groaning on the couch. He’s not in the arena. He’s on the floor, tangled up in the blanket, in his old house.

“What the hell, dude?” Sam makes out through gritted teeth.

“Sorry,” Dean says automatically. “I didn’t mean to, ah—”

“Nail me in the stomach?” Sam kicks the blanket off. “Jerk.”

“Bitch. Do you need an ice pack?”

He huffs. “I’m not _that_ delicate.”

Dean nods, pleased.

“Are you okay, though?”

“What? Yeah, totally.” Dean sits up and untangles the blanket from his legs. “Just startled after falling, is all.”

“I’m not talking about that.” Sam removes his hands from his stomach and looks away, biting his lip.

“What do you mean?” Dean stands and throws the wadded-up blanket at his younger brother.

“You were… well, you screamed,” Sam says awkwardly. “Jo, and hellhounds…” He trails off. He’s not saying the whole truth. Dean’s stomach clenches at what else he might have said in his sleep. Nothing about Naomi, right? Did he call out for Mary? Or—God forbid—Cas? What will Sam think of Dean if— “I just… I know you miss her. I miss her, too.”

Dean blinks. Is Sam trying to counsel him? Make him feel better? That’s not Sam’s job. He doesn’t need to do that. “I appreciate that, Sam, but I’m really fine.” When his brother doesn’t look convinced, Dean insists, “I really am fine, Sam. You’re the one I’m worried about; Dad leaving all the time, me never being here… You know I’d do anything to stay, right? You know I don’t _want_ to leave, right?”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly and glares at Dean. “You’re a Victor, Dean. You could choose to stay.”

“I…” Helplessly, Dean spreads his hands. He really doesn’t want to fight with Sam. The first two years after Dean won the Games was filled with fights because Sam didn’t understand why Dean couldn’t be around him as much anymore. He probably still doesn’t but is resigned to it.

As if he can’t help it, Sam stomps his foot. Dean hadn’t even noticed him standing up. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you? You think I haven’t noticed your nightmares, Dean? You think I don’t know they’re my fault?”

“They are _not_ your fault,” Dean says hotly.

“You volunteered for me! You could have _died_!” Sam’s voice cracks. His eyes look watery. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t want to worry you.” Sam shakes his head, ready to say something about how he can help, but Dean knows firsthand how much pressure it is to take care of your brother. “You don’t need to worry about me, Sammy. You hear? Everything I have ever done I’ve done for you and I have not regretted a single moment. I just want you to be okay, Sammy.”

“That’s bull.” Sam rolls his eyes and puts his hands on his hips. “I do need to worry about you, Dean. That’s my job.”

“No, it’s not. It’s your job to be a snot-nosed little kid.”

“Then that’s your job too!”

Dean’s chest hurts. “I’m nineteen, Sam. I’m an adult.”

“Well, you lost at least two years of your childhood when you became a Victor.” Sam attempts a smile. “So you’re an honorary kid. Can’t we just be _kids_?”

Dean sighs and sits on the couch, rubbing his face wearily. He needs to shave. “All right, stop with the chick flick moments. How long was I sleeping?”

“Two hours?” Sam guesses. “Nothing interesting happened. It was just tributes hunting and stuff.”

“You’ve definitely watched enough TV today,” Dean decides.

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” Sam scowls and then brightens dangerously.

Dean narrows his eyes. “You’re not—”

“We should sneak out—”

“No—”

“Just to pick strawberries?” Sam uses his best puppy eyes, and damn it if Dean isn’t a sucker. His brother just looks so sad and helpless.

With a sigh, Dean throws up his hands. “Whatever.” He checks the time. “They’ll be switching out soon, anyway.”

“Yes!” Sam cheers. “I’ll get my stuff.”

Dean rolls his eyes but walks to the door to slide his feet into his boots. Now he has to plan sneaking out of the district without being caught. Not that many of the Peacekeepers want to stop a Victor and a Victor’s kid, especially when they’ve gotten used to them sneaking out and coming back. It’s not like they’re flight risks.

But God, Dean wishes that he could step into those woods and never come back. He could take Sam and they could live off the land, far away from Naomi and the Capitol.

Dean considers the route to the fence he usually takes. After a moment, he jogs to his bedroom and pulls a suitcase out from underneath his bed. He takes three wrapped packages out of it and stuffs them in his pocket.

The day is clear, though a few clouds are far away in the sky, and Dean can hear children laughing a street away. They’re probably at the park. Maybe Jack Kline is there too.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the park?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m not a little kid, Dean.”

“You know what you’re old enough to do, then?” Dean teases. “Bring some girls beyond the fence. I did that all the time before—” He clears his throat. “Well.”

Sam flushes. “Shut up, Dean.”

The houses start shrinking. The kids playing outside get dirtier and skinnier. Dean pretends to tie his shoe and leaves a package underneath a mailbox. Hopefully the residents will find it.

A pair of patrolling Peacekeepers pass and Dean nods at them. The next house closest to the street the Winchesters walk on receives a soft package thrown at the front step. Finally Dean casually reaches up and inserts a package in the joint between two branches on a tree trunk. He knows that Road kids like to climb that tree.

Another pair of Peacekeepers pass them. Dean nods to them and they nod back. It must be nearing three in the afternoon, when the enforcers rotate for the third time in a day.

Peacekeepers rotate out about every five hours. Whoever’s in charge stations the great majority of them in close proximity to the fence, and for a good reason too—in the past three years, eight people have tried to escape the district. The Peacekeepers whipped them for their temerariousness. Each Peacekeeper has a partner, and they stand about 500 feet away from the nearest Peacekeeper pair. Although a few patrol the streets for violence and crime, not many do. Dean’s sure that there are more Peacekeepers that do that in the poorer parts of District 5, which probably has a lot more crime because they’re not supplied enough food.

Though the fence is electric, there are spaces where it’s broken or turned off. Some kids like to throw rocks at the fence to make it spark, and enough hits have been known to make holes in the chain link. Dean should know. He spent months chucking rocks as hard as he could into the fence.

The electricity turned off about a month in, making it extremely boring to continue throwing, but on the other hand it definitely improved Dean’s hand-eye coordination. Plus, it was the same spot somebody tried to use giant scissors to cut through the metal, so it was already wasting away, and the spot is hidden from nearby Peacekeeper patrols by a large tree. Dean finally broke through on a cold winter morning. He used an axe in the days to come to make the hole larger until it was big enough for him to step through without brushing the metal in the off-chance the electricity will get fixed. He’d also had the presence of mind to fit the metal in the hole as best he could so as to attract the least amount of attention.

He’s sure the Peacekeepers knew exactly what he was doing, but he was eight years old and a Victor’s kid, so they couldn’t really say much and there wasn’t much danger in letting him and Jo wander a little ways away to pick strawberries and play in a stream. Though Dean always insisted the strawberries the Peacekeepers sometimes buy from him come from a garden behind his house, he’s sure the Peacekeepers know that’s bull considering his backyard is very visible to the public and there is no garden in there whatsoever. There was one time—Dean’s not sure if it was a dream—that he thinks he remembers falling asleep and Peacekeepers coming to get him, but of course that could all be the product of an active imagination.

“You remember what we do, right, Sammy?” Dean asks out of the corner of his mouth as he nods at two Peacekeepers. They nod right back. _That’s right, we’re just out on a stroll on a pretty summer day._ He’s not sure how they’d react to him leaving now that he’s an adult, even if he is a Victor.

“We have to listen for the buzzing,” Sam murmurs back. “To make sure it’s not on.”

“That’s right.” Dean dips his head and his pace doesn’t falter as he strolls behind the tree, but once he’s hidden from sight a significant amount of tension eases from his limbs.

“Hello, boys.”

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. The Peacekeeper in front of him still wears his mask, but Dean can recognize that voice easily. _Oh, great. Crowley._ Dean’s favorite Peacekeeper, though that’s not saying much; he still hates the man. Just a little less than some of the others.

“Little jumpy there, aren’t you, Squirrel,” the man observes. “Now, you boys wouldn’t happen to be sneaking out of the district, would you?”

“Nope,” Dean lies quickly. “I was teaching Sammy here how to—”

“Come on, Crowley,” Sam gripes. “We’re only going out for a little while.”

_Sam, you idiot._

The grizzled Peacekeeper doesn’t speak for so long that Dean’s sure they’re going to be whipped. He doesn’t know what expression is on his face, but Dean doubts it’s a good one. He’s really put his foot in it now, hasn’t he? His little brother is going to be _whipped_ and he’s only fifteen. Sweat trickles down his back and from his hairline.

“It was all my idea,” Dean says hastily the moment Crowley sucks in his breath to say something. “I swear.”

“I don’t care whose idea it was,” he grunts. “I just cornered you to make sure you’ll save some fruit for me.” He steps out of the shadows and looks a lot less menacing. With an open hand, he offers them coins. “Us Peacekeepers have missed our fruit boys.”

Dean makes a face. That is the worst thing he has ever heard.

“Just don’t give any to Azazel,” Crowley adds hastily. Like Dean was going to. “He never shares.”

Sam snatches the coins eagerly and looks up at Dean, pleading. Like Dean’s going to say no. Plus, having a few extra coins never hurt anybody. Though most of their supplies are shipped to their front doors and some people in the market will give them food without asking for payment, it’ll be nice to spread the wealth around and actually pay for goods.

Cas’s warning about how helping everyone in a community actually helps nobody comes back to Dean. He brushes it off. Cas might be smart but he doesn’t know everything. Besides, there’s no other way for Dean to help.

He reaches into the tree’s hollow trunk and takes out three woven baskets. The insides are stained red and blue from juice. Dean pokes the bottom of the most stained and it’s soft to the touch. With a sigh, he tosses it aside. “Well, that’s done for.”

“We’ll be back later,” Sam promises Crowley, who inclines his head and sits against the tree trunk, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s about to take a nap.

“You’re not going to switch out?” Dean asks suspiciously.

“It’s my day off,” Crowley shrugs.

“How’d you know we were coming?”

“I come here most of my days off,” Crowley replies. “It must have been luck. Bye, Moose and Squirrel.”

It sounds like a lie or an evasion, but what does Dean know? He _definitely_ doesn’t have _any_ reason not to trust the Peacekeepers.

Dean grips the fake section of metal and pulls quickly. He steps through the fence, trying not to get stuck on any metal parts. He’s gotten too big for the hole, however, and one piece snags his jacket’s right sleeve. That could be a problem if this section ever turns on.

Call him paranoid.

Now he’s in a forest. Just like the arena’s forest.

Something cracks behind him and Dean whirls, heart racing, but it’s just Sam stepping on a stick. “You can go in front,” Dean invites. Sam nods and takes the lead.

The first time he entered the forest after the Games he could have sworn that Jo was running through the trees beside him. After that he could have sworn Krissy was screaming for him.

The ghosts have faded, especially with Sam here, but they’re not quite silenced. This is the closest place Dean has to their memories. Something slithers to his right and for a moment it sounds exactly like a knife soaring through the air, thrown by Wendy and coming straight for Dean’s back. Maybe that bark of a fox is a quiet gunshot, the bullet ripping into Vam Pyre. Or maybe it’s coming from the hellhound that tore Bela Talbot to pieces.

“Hey, look,” Sam says, pleased. “They’re in full bloom. Animals haven’t gotten to them yet.” He’s right. The few strawberry bushes are laden down with berries. A little while away, the blueberry bush that Sam has tried to nurture for years finally seems to be yielding fruit.

“Okay, let’s get to work.”

It doesn’t take long to gather all the fruit, but the process would probably be shorter if they hadn’t spent at least fifteen minutes smushing the ones with bad spots on each other and then cleaning off in the small stream.

The trees are casting long shadows by the time Sam and Dean are ready to go back. Crowley doesn’t look like he’s moved at all. He also doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping, since he looks up at the first sound of voices.

“Excellent,” he says crisply as he stands up. “Thank you boys ever so much.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the formality. He freezes when something red catches his attention.

A red light is blinking at Dean. Right at Dean. It’s attached to a camera pointed right. At. Dean.

His breath catches in his throat. Naomi saw him leaving the District. She saw his business deal with Crowley.

“Don’t look at it,” Crowley hisses, clapping Dean on the shoulder so hard he stumbles and tears his eyes away from the camera. He whispers, “Haven’t you learned by now to let the enemy have her little victories so she doesn’t start working towards a larger one?”

“We should head back,” Dean says woodenly. Sure, he knew that the Peacekeepers knew about this place. But how does Naomi know—and why does she care? “Come on, Sam.”

“Bye, Crowley!” Sam waves goodbye to the older man and hurries after Dean. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Was Crowley one of the Peacekeepers that hurt Mom?”

And there is the million-dollar question. “I don’t know.” And that’s the truth. Most of the guards didn’t take their helmets off, and besides, Dean was _four_. His account of anything shouldn’t be reliable apart from the very hard facts like Azazel, Mary, and the white room.

He doesn’t want to suspect Crowley of doing something like that. The man might be prickly and tease them and have a superiority complex, but he doesn’t seem like the type of person to hurt a woman and her two sons both under five years old. And then give the sons nicknames and pay them for breaking the rules.

It just doesn’t add up.

The first sign that something is wrong is the eerie silence. Nobody’s out on the streets, though Dean sees that the package he’d left on a doorstep is gone. Not even Peacekeepers are on the streets. Trepidation makes his stomach curdle.

“I think something’s wrong,” Sam whispers.

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” Dean murmurs back. He grips Sam’s shoulder and starts to run for the house. He’s not in the mood to be cornered by any anti-Capitolists, betters, or thugs today. Sam keeps up well, presumably from all the track. Scratch that. By the end of it Dean’s panting but Sam seems hardly out of breath.

“Turn on the TV,” Dean orders, surveying the deserted street one more time before slamming the door shut and locking it. After a brief moment of contemplation, he drags a chair over and jams it under the door handle. He can hear a commotion on the TV. Maybe the Games are over. “Sam? What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Sam calls back, but his voice is funny. Like he’s much farther away than the living room.

“Are you okay?” Dean demands, racing into the living room. His brother is fine, but his eyes are wide as he looks at the TV. Slowly, Dean walks around the couch so he can see the screen as well.

LIVE FOOTAGE FROM DISTRICT 11, the bottom of the screen reads. It certainly looks like it. A crowd of people are in the Justice Square, as Dean knows is more commonplace in districts where electricity is spotty but viewing is still mandatory. The crowd looks like a roiling sea as people push each other and scream. Peacekeepers have surrounded the crowd in a circle, three lines deep, all with their shields up. Rocks fly into the shields, but the shields don’t completely absorb the impact. The lines are staggering.

Something lights on fire and a section of the Peacekeepers scatter. The screaming, though tinny, is still loud and sets Dean’s teeth on edge. “They must be unhappy their tributes died.”

The camera zooms in on a group of people on top of the Justice building. Something blasts off a section of the building near them and the people stagger. One falls off. In the corner of the screen Dean sees that some Peacekeepers now have guns and are shooting at the people on top of the building while their colleagues break bones with their discipline sticks if they’re not holding up a shield.

The people at the top of the building look like they’re holding a rolled-up carpet.

“Oh, no.” Dean’s not sure how, but he already knows what’s on that banner.

The Peacekeepers get the person on the far right side of the building and they fall to the ground. The sound of bones snapping is lost amid the chaos, but Dean can see in the bottom of the screen that their body looks like a ragdoll. The rebelling citizens have started to throw flaming rocks at the Peacekeepers, who look like they’re going to buckle under the pressure.

“Sam, go away,” Dean orders.

“What? No!” Sam exclaims, scandalized. “Look! We’re going to win!”

“I’m not going to ask you again,” Dean growls. The people on the top of the building prepare to unravel the banner. He prays that they’ll all be shot down before they manage it.

Unfortunately, nobody is listening to his prayer. Sam snaps at Dean at the same time the banner unfolds with a snap. Though the right side sags a bit, the message on the fabric is unmistakable. The rebels had painted a sword on fire on a large swath of grey cloth.

More snapping has the camera moving around in a frenzy. The people walking on top of the Justice building hadn’t been stupid to stand up straight; they’d been a distraction. There are people on top of every building in the Justice Square, all unfolding their own anti-Capitol banners. One reads DOWN WITH THE CAPITOL. Another says NO MORE DEAD CHILDREN. Dean’s stomach drops more and more as he reads VICTORS ARE MURDERERS and DISTRICT 13 WILL RISE.

“Oh, no,” he whispers again. He’s not the face of the rebellion, which he’d wanted, but people are still using his symbol. His inaction hadn’t been enough.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Sam shoots back. “Look, Dean! We can do it! We can win!”

Some of the people on top of the buildings fall off, whether pushed by wind or shot, but many more disappear back into the buildings. The crowd is trampling Peacekeepers, fire is roaring, and the screaming sounds more like laughter. For a moment Dean believes that District 11 will be the answer. Maybe Naomi isn’t invincible after all.

Then armored trucks pull up to the Justice building and Peacekeepers pour out, brandishing guns and other projectile weapons.

Dean turns off the television.

“Hey!” Sam says, scandalized, lunging for the remote, but Dean doesn’t register it.

Everyone is going to die. Naomi wanted people to see that to give them hope and tear it away. To crush people’s spirits.

He’d started this. Sam is going to be punished.

The telephone rings and Dean jumps. He can feel his pulse in his temple, his heart frantically beating in a last-ditch attempt to prolong his miserable life, but this is it. His arm hurts. He looks down and sees that he’s finally drawn blood on his left forearm after days of scratching. He presses down on the tracker lump in his arm and a dull ache greets him.

 _Animals will chew off their own limbs to escape traps,_ John had once told Dean. _That’s why you never leave them alone too long. You might miss out on a meal._

He answers the phone. “Hello?”

“You’re to come back immediately,” the crisp voice on the other end commands. Naomi doesn’t sound especially pleased or peeved. It unnerves Dean any more. How can she not care that her districts are rebelling?

“Public appearances?” Dean asks with a sigh, then he freezes. She might tolerate his unwillingness on good days, but today is not exactly a good day.

“Hardly. This will not be a business trip.”

Dean frowns.

“You have mourned Joanna long enough.”

His stomach drops.

“A woman of high standard will come to your room tomorrow night. If you do not behave according to my expectations there will be… consequences.”

Dean hangs up without a good-bye.

“Who was that?” Sam asks.

Dean vomits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Happy early Christmas for those who celebrate. If you don't, happy holiday season! I would say I hope receiving this chapter cheers you up but I don't think it will :). Anyways, I am happy to report that I have been working on some of the later chapters for this story and am coming out of an awful writer's block, so that's fun! Also, my work is shutting down for two months for the season so I would have more free time except my swim and lacrosse seasons are starting up. So we'll see how much writing I actually get done. Anyways, hope you enjoy and comment! Tell me how you're (safely) celebrating the holidays or what you'd like to see for the ending/climax of the story. I just really want to hear from y'all.


	10. Dean Winchester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Listen, I know this is one week late and I am really sorry. As I'm sure some if not most of you know, ao3 went down last Monday so I was unable to post. After that my week got crazy busy and I got distracted. I wish I had a better excuse, but... Anyways, we're going to recalibrate the updating schedule a little bit; this is my update for this week and in two weeks there will be another chapter. I know this sets back chapters by a week, but I hope you all understand. For all the hardcore Destiel shippers out there, this chapter might make it up to you.  
> Also, this fic (which I have finished 18 chapters of) is already 30 pages aka ~20k words longer than The Wounds Inside with 22 chapters. In case anyone was interested.

_ then _

Dean’s home after a harrowing few weeks of travel, but not for long. Despite the familiarity of this crowd, he can’t help the butterflies in his stomach. What will Sam and John think? When they last saw him, he had his whole tongue.

Today Cas didn’t give Dean an earpiece. It sets his teeth on edge; if Naomi doesn’t think he needs an earpiece, then she must have another way of enforcing her rules, right? Dean never thought he’d miss the device, but better the enemy you can see, right?

“Mayor Kline is almost done,” Cas says quietly, one hand rising to cup Dean’s elbow. Dean can’t meet his eyes; he feels too dirty because of the…  _ thoughts _ running around his head. It’s got to be the trauma scrambling his thoughts. That is the only reason Dean is thinking about the party later and how Cas will be there. “Are you ready?”

“Of cour’e,” Dean mumbles. He curses and repeats the words painstakingly, “ _ Of course _ .” He is not going to do that in front of his brother. Not his father, either. He can speak without his tongue. Naomi might be trying to make him an Avox, but she hasn’t succeeded yet. And she won’t.

The suit he wears today is the same one he wore for his interview with Andrew Gallagher.  _ Jo should be here, _ he thinks impulsively.  _ She should be wearing her black dress with flame accents and we should be holding hands— _

He doesn’t hear the last part of Mayor Kline’s speech because nobody does. Unlike every other crowd that’s been prompted to cheer, Dean’s appearance sparks a chorus of screams and shouts for the most recent District 5 Victor. Dean secured more supplies for his district with his Victory and he did it without killing Jo, even if it is his fault that she’s dead. He’s practically their golden boy.

Mayor Kline, who has lost weight and color after his wife’s death, winces a bit at the cheering and steps back, covering his newborn son’s ears as best he can. Something in Dean’s chest melts like butter at the sight of the baby. He looks a lot like Sam had when he was younger. To be fair, though, all babies look the same. The mayor nods at Dean and sends him a small, stressed smile.

Dean forgets himself. He reaches for baby Jack as the mayor nears. To his credit, the mayor doesn’t flinch from his killer’s hands so much as stiffen. His son, on the other hand, smiles a toothless grin at Dean. It’s contagious and Dean grins back, waving by wiggling his fingers.

“Your tongue,” the mayor breathes.

Dean shuts his mouth, teeth clicking together. He sidesteps the mayor and steps up to the podium, prompting another round of cheering. The Victor section is particularly loud. Bobby whistles while he claps. The other Victors’ hands must surely be red and stinging by now by how their claps sound out like gunshots. Closest to the stage stands Gordon Walker, who looks especially menacing today. Perhaps he’s angry that Dean’s unseated him from his throne of ‘latest District 5 Victor’.

Dean looks to his left where his family stands. John’s clapping is moderated, but Sam pounds his palms together and cheers. When their eyes meet, Sam grins and waves furiously. Dean waves back, lips twitching as he fights the urge to smile.

To his right is Ellen. She claps, as is expected of her, but she faces the Justice Building and does not meet Dean’s eyes. He’d expected this; Ellen still refuses to talk to him and the hope that time apart would have softened her heart is a foolish, childish one.

Dean lifts his hand and the sounds die out. “Thank you, District 5, for this warm welcome home.” He smiles, lips firmly closed. “I am honored to be your Victor today.”

Gordon wolf-whistles with his fingers in his mouth and a few Victors laugh, but some civilians send anxious looks at the Peacekeepers. Sam beams at Dean. John stares above Dean’s head.

Way above.

Dean frowns but continues.

“Of course, I would not be here today without the worthy sacrifice of my opponents.” He clears his throat. “They fought valiantly, but the thought of coming home to my very own brother and father motivated me far more than their petty goals. While fame might have been a reason for fighting for them, it is a burden I must endure.”

A few civilians cheer at that, but the Victor faces that look up at Dean don’t look very impressed. He doesn’t blame them; if he had to hear somebody say that he would think they’re completely full of crap. Which he is. Or at least this speech is; it was written by either Castiel or Naomi or both.

John catches Dean’s eye and looks up again. Is he avoiding his gaze or something?

“I must also mention the loss of my love, Joanna Harvelle.” Dean steals a quick glance at Ellen, but she’s still not looking at him so he didn’t really need to be so sneaky. He looks at Sam to steady himself and sees his younger brother’s scrunched face, but he’s not sure what emotion is prompting Sam to make that expression—distaste? Confusion? “She will always be my greatest regret.” Well, that part certainly isn’t a lie.

John clenches his teeth, staring at Dean, and his eyes go up at the same time his chin jerks slightly. Dean finally gets the hint. He looks up and sees what his father was trying to tell him: there are people on the tops of the buildings in the Justice Square. He can’t watch them too long, but are they holding big black sticks?

“But we will cry at our memory.” It’s a wonder he manages to keep his voice even, but he completely butchers the delivery of the sentence that was supposed to be ‘But she would not want us to cry at her memory’. The crowd murmurs and shifts and Dean mentally berates himself because what in the hell does that even mean?

Dean smiles again without showing his teeth. “Now, I understand that a party is in order?”

He turns, raising his eyebrows at the Mayor. The Victor’s celebration in his or her own district is highly televised. No doubt the district has gone all out for this; their first Victor in a decade that isn’t directly responsible for their partner tribute’s death. Dean is a far cry from Gordon who murdered his own sister, and he’s sure they’re in a hurry to forget the other Victor.

The crowd cheers again with much less prompting. Behind Dean, Jack Kline lets out a little wail at the sound.

Behind Dean something snaps. He jumps and turns around just in time to see a tarp unravel from the top of the Justice Building. His face is prominent on the design, but behind him is the Capitol insignia and a shadow that looks a bit too female; the hair is too long and curly, the body is too skinny…

Dean’s stomach drops. Someone printed Jo behind him on the poster, grey with features only visible when you look closer.

The banner tears in the middle, perhaps due to the weight. Then Dean recognizes the clattering of an asymmetrical rock as it hits the Justice Building and bounces across the ground, coming to a stop only when it hits Dean’s foot. The crowd bursts into murmurs and Peacekeepers bark words muffled by their thick masks.

Someone threw a rock at the banner?

Prez Kline yelps behind him and retreats into the Justice Building.

“Cut the cameras,” Castiel orders a Peacekeeper. He nods and gestures to a Peacekeeper standing by one of the Capitol’s reporters.

Dean looks up as a hulking, dark figure bursts from the crowd, over the railing keeping the crowd from the stage, and leaps up the stairs two at a time. “Down with the Capital!” Gordon screams as Peacekeepers’ voices rise, chucking another rock in the banner’s direction, but he misses terribly and it hits Dean in the stomach with enough force that he sits down abruptly.

Gordon presses three fingers to his mouth and raises them as a salute, thunderous expression daring the civilians to refuse his invitation. A few shaky hands follow his lead in the crowd.

Empty-handed and off-footed, on his ass, Dean stares at him. Gordon meets his eyes, large features set in grim determination, and he nods at Dean as if he’s in a cohort with him. He opens his mouth again, face screwed up, until said face is gone.

Dean gasps, spluttering, as he watches Gordon’s headless body teeter, as if hasn’t yet realized that it’s missing its brain, before the legs go out. His knees hit the ground first, followed by his stiff body. The bare neck leers at Dean, exposing bone and bloody flesh as he gapes. A puddle of blood is spreading from where his head should be. A puddle of urine is spreading from around his pants.

John yells something unintelligible and leaps off the podium, dragging Sam with him, but Dean’s frozen. Bits of Gordon have splattered everywhere, including all over himself. Ellen, who was slower than John, is similarly splattered, but she reacts quicker than Dean does and disappears over the side of the podium.

Screams break out and everything goes crazy. Screams reach his ears, but muted, and he can’t feel his own limbs.  _ If this is it, so be it. _

Dean watches as a gray-haired woman with a flower-patterned dress falls to the ground and two people trip over her body. A boy younger than him in brown trousers and a gray shirt is on the ground, dragging himself with his hands out of the commotion, blood staining the right leg of his pants above his knee and leaving a red trail in the dirt. A girl with two braids and a pink and blue dress is lying face down on the ground, blood in a puddle around her chest and sinking into the earth. A boy Dean recognizes from his history class last year is sitting against a building, shirt red and sticking to his skin as he keeps pressure on a wound to his abdomen.

His head jerks up and he meets Dean’s gaze. It’s Cole Trenton from District 7, nose bloody and eyes bruised, teeth bared in a snarl that blames Dean for his every problem. He blinks and the boy is from his history class again, stark-white against the gray building. His head lolls and his hands fall to the ground. His chest rises one last time before awful stillness takes hold.

The death knocks the air from Dean’s lungs and he looks away, desperate for some sense in the confusion, but everywhere he looks somebody’s falling to the ground, shot in the head or leg or arm, but even more people are escaping the Justice Square, streaming back to their houses and far away from the snipers.

Then Dean’s vision is blocked by a tan trenchcoat and freakishly blue eyes. Castiel yells something in his face that he doesn’t register. The escort’s hands grip his shoulders, shaking him. Dean’s head snaps back and forth, eyes gazing past his shoulder where he watches a girl cower in the center of the square, hands around her head like they’ll stop bullets.

Except the bullets aren’t bullets, they’re rocks and Dean’s got a bright orange backpack on his back and he has to make it between those two buildings or he’s going to be crushed; the ground is vibrating underneath him—

Strong fingers cup his chin and big blue eyes are all he can see. “Dean! Are you all right? Answer me!”

“I’m fine,” Dean says weakly, coming back to himself. It feels a lot like waking up after a deep sleep. “I’m—I’m—what are you doing, Cas? You could be trampled or shot! Get inside the Justice Building!” The stupid idiot is just  _ sitting _ there like he’s in no danger! Speaking of being in danger—“Sam!” he screams, scrambling to his feet and lurching in the direction John disappeared off the platform with his brother, but something catches him around the middle and yanks him back.

“Dean!” Castiel grunts. “We have to get you into shelter!”

“SAM!” Dean screams, struggling to get out of his grip, but Castiel’s arms are like iron rods even as he writhes.

“He’s fine, Dean!” Castiel screams in his face, whirling him around so the Victor is between himself and the Justice Building. “But you have to get to shelter!”

His shoulder hits Dean’s chest and bends him almost in half. Castiel carries him like a sack of flour into the Justice Building, Dean’s fruitless hands scrabbling at the back of his trenchcoat as he cries out for his brother.

With a huff, Castiel drops him on the floor and slams the door shut. He tries to lunge at it, but Cas catches him again and shoves him back, sending him sprawling. His back hits the wall and the resulting pain makes him even angrier.

Dean stands up, stiff with too many emotions to process, and pushes him into the door. “If my brother is hurt I’ll never forgive you,” he hisses into the annoying face of his escort. “Don’t  _ ever _ do that again.” He turns on his heel and stalks off in no particular direction except  _ away _ .

He can hear Jack Kline’s crying and Prez’s shushing, but that doesn’t drown out Castiel’s dry tone as he remarks, “I dare say the party will be postponed a day.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

* * *

_ now _

One of Dean’s least favorite people is at the Roadhouse today. She almost put him off of the tower of waffles Cas fetched him— _ almost _ . The escort had looked so pleased when he’d given it to Dean, however, the waffles can’t help but taste sweeter than before.

Eileen looked annoyed when she walked into the Roadhouse, as per usual. Dean almost tried to run away; he’s definitely not in the mood for a confrontation with her, or God forbid, a heart-to-heart about her own experience with the friskier Capitol citizens.

Not that Dean doesn’t blame her for being annoyed. He’s plenty annoyed. At District 11. And scared. And a little ashamed at himself. Sure, his dad says that two men in a relationship is gross, but what about contracted sex? That’s gotta be worse. Right?

Next to Dean, Cas pores over some complicated thing that Dean had asked about, then immediately tuned out for Cas’s explanation. It’s from Gabriel, Dean knows that much, and involves something to do with the Games because these people have nothing better to do than talk about and watch children murder each other.

As usual, when the Games are in session, not even the Roadhouse is an escape from them. Though the sounds might be more muted than if they were watching in a public viewing area, the screens take up most of the walls.

Dean notes with some amusement that, as usual, Victors move from their regular seating areas to the areas farthest away from the screens, talking amongst each other more than usual. Dean opted not to do that, even if the alternative is watching a group of seventeen year olds hunt down the only twelve year old in the arena. Though it’s irrational, he can’t help but feel that if he joined the Victors they would sense that he’s dirty—that he’s going to be even dirtier tonight. Their souls might be sullied, but Dean has the luxury of a choice and he still chose this life.

_ What if John is right? _ A traitorous voice in Dean’s head whispers. His eyes flick to Castiel nervously, as if the escort has somehow developed the ability to read minds, but he remains blissfully ignorant of the thoughts racing through Dean’s head as he continues to read the papers dutifully.

_ What if—after all the blood of a revolution—it’s worth it? What if I could ensure Sam’s safety and get my revenge? _

Dean swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. He has a feeling he knows where these thoughts are coming from; they’re the desperate thoughts of a trapped animal, but he can’t stop them even if his heart knows that no matter what he decides to do in the future, tonight is not something he can control. This night belongs to Naomi.

_ I could stop all this heartache. _

Of course, it wouldn’t make up for the past three years of inaction and dead children. Anxiety grips his heart; Dean doesn’t even know where he’d start, Sam needs to be safe, what can he even do, and what about Cas?

Dean shakes himself. He’s being stupid. If he hides Sam, Naomi will kill him or worse. He knows that Sam is her leverage over him, and she knows that he knows. So he can’t do anything after all.

Dean sinks into the cushions morosely, watching without taking it in as the twelve year old girl scurries up a tree. If she stays as still as possible, maybe her hunters will pass by the tree—but no.

She’s still climbing by the time they get to the tree. None of the branches by the one that she’s on are sturdy enough for her to climb on them or perhaps jump. She’s completely trapped.

“I’m going to get more food,” Dean mutters. His throat is suddenly much too dry for waffles. The only things left on his plate are scraps, anyway.

Cas hums but doesn’t stop reading.

Dean avoids the eyes of the ever-inscrutable Avoxes as he approaches the lunch table. He’s not in the mood for breakfast anymore. What he’d really like is a hamburger.

An arm cuts him off as he’s reaching for one. Without even an apology, Eileen reaches around him for a small salad.

“Do you know sign language, Dean?” she asks quietly.

“Uh.” Dean clears his throat. Has she heard? Is she confronting him? Here to boast about how he’s not morally superior anymore (not that he ever was)? “No?”

Eileen presses her fingertips to her mouth. “This means food. If you tap twice, it means eat.” She rubs her hand on her chest. “This means please.” She’s speaking really loud and slow. Maybe she’s practicing her pronunciation, although months of speech therapy have significantly improved her communication skills.

“Okay?” Dean reaches for the hamburger again, but Eileen literally slaps his hand away. “Ow! What the hell?” A few of the Avoxes shift.

Eileen scowls at him and slaps a thumbs up on her left hand. “This is help. It’s directional, which means if I gesture at you with my eyebrows up, I’m offering my help to you. If I gesture to myself, I’m asking for you to help me.” She demonstrates and Dean copies instinctively.

“How long am I going to be here?” he mutters under his breath. He’s not exactly hungry, but eating is a nice distraction from watching a bunch of almost-adults shoot a kid out of a tree.

Eileen completely ignores him. “I can teach you the alphabet another day.”

“I never asked you to,” he complains.

“I don’t care,” she retorts. “Maybe stop only thinking about yourself, Winchester.”

“Then ask one of your friends to do it,” Dean grumbles. “We don’t like each other, or have you forgotten?”

Eileen huffs and spins on her heel. Dean rolls his eyes at her back and reaches for his hamburger, but a small movement catches his eye. He turns to get a better look.

One male Avox is moving a couch. Another walks up to him, puts a thumbs up in her palm, and pushes it in his direction.

She’d just offered to help. In sign language.

Dean whirls around. Eileen watches the Avoxes with a blank face. Dean catches her eye and her expression doesn’t change but maybe—maybe it was just a twitch—maybe she winks.

“Where’s Charlie?” Dean asks Castiel, his hands empty.

“I think she’s in the bathroom,” Cas replies. “What happened to your food?”

But Dean’s already running to the women’s restroom. He needs to tell Charlie about this, although he’s not exactly sure why—she’ll just be interested to hear about it, he supposes. He kicks the door open. “Hey, Charlie, you’ll never guess—”

Charlie and Kara jump apart, eyes wide. Dean chokes. Charlie’s red hair is ruffled and Kara’s lips are swollen. Their faux-casual airs don’t hide the undeniable fact that they were just lip-locked ferociously.

“I guess he’d figure out sometime,” Kara mutters, fixing Charlie’s hair.

Speechless, Dean gapes at them. “You’re…”

“Yes, Dean, we’re together.” Charlie crosses her arms over her chest, eyes shifting between Dean and the sink like she can’t bear to hold his gaze.

Dean sucks a breath in as he bites his lip, at a complete loss for words. “Isn’t that…” He knows what he’s saying is rude even as it comes out of his mouth: “Wrong?” He winces at the thunderous look on Charlie’s face.

Kara shakes her head and sighs. “Why do you think it is?”

“My dad,” Dean says weakly. It’s a thin excuse even to his ears.

“Districts,” Charlie huffs. “I can’t exactly blame you. Everything we do you guys think is wrong, even the stuff we do right.”

“Huh?”

“The Capitol is a lot more accepting when it comes to same-sex relationships,” Kara explains. “A few districts found out and decided that since we were doing it, it must be wrong. Or something. It’s been going on for decades, anyway.” She shrugs and moves to wash her hands.

Dean can’t argue with that logic. The technology in the Capitol, for one thing, is magnificent and impressive, coming from someone who grew up in the districts. But using it, knowing what he had to do to get here, makes him feel dirty. “So it’s not…” He struggles for another word. Wrong? Dirty?

“It’s just the way we are,” Charlie shrugs. “It’s just the way we’re wired.”

“So you don’t like guys, like… at all?” Dean checks. “Just… nothing?”

Charlie shrugs. “Nothing. It’s like how  _ you _ like girls. You didn’t choose to, did you? I didn’t, either.”

“So,” Dean says slowly, “you’re a girl and you like girls. And it’s okay for boys to like boys, too?”

Kara and Charlie exchange looks before Kara replies, “Of course. And sometimes, people can like both girls  _ and _ boys. It’s called being bisexual.”

Dean’s cheeks flush scarlet. Just thinking about that feels taboo, dirty. “That’s allowed?”

Charlie laughs. “Oh, honey. Everything is allowed. We’re in the Capitol, after all.”

“It’s not wrong or dirty or anything?”

Charlie’s expression crumbles a little bit, making her look sad and small and delicate. “Dean—”

Kara puts a hand on her shoulder to stop her and fixes Dean with her piercing gaze. “Some people might think it is, but it’s just the way we are, Dean. The way we were born. And who cares what other people think? It’s our life, not theirs. So screw ‘em.”

Dean’s startled into a laugh. “Screw ‘em.” He smiles at Charlie a little shyly. “It’s okay. I don’t think you’re dirty, Charlie.”

“Good.” Charlie pulls him into a surprisingly strong hug considering her bony arms. “I’d have to knock some sense into you if you did.”

Dean may not think Charlie is dirty, but he knows that he is. Charlie and Kara have each other and are happy, but Dean’s been alone for years save for the occasional late-night companion, but never one for money and never one contracted by Naomi.

His arms drop from around Charlie and he staggers back, avoiding her gaze.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Dean mutters. “I, um, should probably get out of the women’s restroom.” He fakes a laugh. “My bad. Uh, bye.” He waves and slips out of the suddenly much too crowded room. He feels like he’s about to be sick.

Someone coughs to his left and he whirls. Brady Croatoan sneers at him. “Got lost, Winchester?”

“Nah, just meeting up with your sister,” Dean shoots back instinctively. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Castiel stand up.

Brady’s eyes narrow and he clenches his fists. “Why don’t you stay out of the ladies’ bathroom if you’re a dude, Winchester? Unless, of course, you want to come out and tell everyone you’re a pu—”

“You’re one to talk, aren’t you?” Dean snaps. “A real ‘man’, aren’t you, Brady?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he steps forward, bristling and puffed up as if that’s going to scare Dean.

“You know exactly what it means,” Dean retorts. “Go on, hit me.” He raises his chin, daring the other man to do it.  _ Hit me, _ his gaze orders.  _ Strike down the Houndkiller. I dare you to try. _

To his credit, Brady can pack a nice right hook. Dean staggers back and Brady lets out a harsh bark of laughter as a gravelly voice calls Dean’s name. “You underestimated me, huh?”

Dean refuses to touch where he was hit. He straightens and looks the man in the eyes. “Yeah, I guess I did.” For a moment everyone relaxes, deluding themselves into thinking that Dean’s pride would ever let him walk away from this fight. No. He’s pumped with adrenaline, terrified for tonight, and if this woman wants a Victor she’ll get a Victor—and all the worst parts that come with it. “Everyone did, though,” Dean snarls, taking savage pleasure in the anger in Brady’s expression. “Seeing as how you’re from District 10. You know, the coward district. How did a district manage to raise a tribute that would rather kill himself than someone else, anyway?”

It’s a low blow. Dean knows that. He’d  _ counted _ on that.

Brady roars, lunging forward, but this time Dean’s ready. He blocks the first attack with his arm and gets a good punch into Brady’s jaw, knocking him off-balance. This time he isn’t looking to take any prisoners. He’s not looking to preserve his humanity or dignity. He’s already lost that. It’s  _ dead _ . Just like so many people that shouldn’t be.

Everyone’s yelling around him goes muffled. Their forms go blurry. There’s only Brady now, Dean lasered in on him like a hunter stalking its prey.

Dean plows his shoulder into Brady’s stomach, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Brady manages to jerk his elbow into Dean’s eye socket, making him howl. He digs his fingernails into the side of Brady’s neck, swipes them down without breaking the skin, creating red lines that will burn later. Somehow he ends up straddling his opponent. He only gets in two good hits to his face before someone’s grabbing him around the waist, trying to drag him away. Dean squeezes Brady’s torso with his knees, resisting, and continues to punch until someone yanks his hair.

Sound hits his ears like a wave. Everything comes into focus. Eileen drops to her knees at Brady’s side, her lips moving but whatever she’s saying is completely drowned out by everyone else’s ruckus.

“Damnit, Dean!” Castiel bellows when Dean’s elbow catches him in the shoulder. “You’re going to kill him!”

Dean takes in a shuddering breath and goes limp, allowing the escort to drag him off of Brady’s barely conscious body. Even though he only remembers landing three hits on his face, Brady looks swollen and delicate, eyes leaking as he sputters words up to Eileen. He curls his body away from Dean, protecting the important bits.

Dean didn’t want to be a threat to anyone, ever. He never wanted this for himself.

He thought this would make him feel better. It made him feel even worse.

“I’m sorry,” he gets out through an aching jaw. He can’t even hear it over everyone else’s clamor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

Cas’s hands cup his jaw and blue eyes meet his own seriously. They flick back and forth, examining every inch of his face, before his thumb ever so gently wipes a drop of moisture off of his cheek. Dean hadn’t even known he was crying. He doesn’t even know  _ why _ he’s crying.

“You look terrible,” Castiel finally says. It stings. “Your lady will not be pleased.”

Dean’s cheeks burn at the thought of Cas knowing just how dirty he is. “I don’t care about what she thinks.” He does, however, care about what Cas thinks. “She wanted a Victor, she can get a Victor.”

“Oh, Dean.” Cas sounds heartbroken. “You and I both know this isn’t the ugliest part about being a Victor.”

Footsteps wake Dean up.

His mouth tastes sour, like wine. Dean tries licking his lips, but they feel sticky and also taste odd.

He opens his eyes. His ceiling greets him. Dean cranes his head just in time to see the hem of a trenchcoat disappear into his closet. “Cas?” His voice is hoarse and croaky.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” the escort responds briskly. “My—Naomi sends her regards. Ms. Hensforth was pleased.” There’s something off about his tone.

Dean frowns. “Cas, are you all right?”

“I’m quite all right,” he responds. His voice is much too measured. It’s lost all expression. “I would recommend your taking a shower before your meeting with the president.”

“I’m meeting with the president?” Dean chokes and rolls out of the bed.

“Yes.” Cas emerges from the closet carrying a brown flannel, blue jeans, and a black undershirt. He avoids Dean’s gaze. Dean checks to make sure he’s not naked. He is not, so he doesn’t have a good explanation for why Cas isn’t looking at him.

It seems at first that he’s going to expand, but he lays the clothes on Dean’s bed and moves to leave his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” Dean hates the plaintive note in his voice.

“I’m going to wait in the living room,” the escort replies stiffly.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what Naomi wants?”

“I’m quite sure you will figure it out during your conversation.”

And with that, Castiel shuts the door. Dean stares at it for a moment, bewildered, before shaking his head and walking to the bathroom.

The mirror shows a very different picture than he’d imagined. His lips are red and smeared with the woman’s lipstick. Dean thinks back to last night and remembers that the makeup, he’d thought, tasted and felt funny, but not in a good way. He’s not used to his women wearing makeup (at least as much as he can remember), and he’s definitely not a fan of it.

Dean scrubs his face especially hard when he’s in the shower. His skin is raw and pink in the mirror.

Castiel doesn’t twitch when he exits the bedroom. “Are you ready to go?”

“Not quite.” Dean needs a drink if he’s going to deal with both a pissy Castiel and Naomi. Besides, he can still taste the woman’s wine in his mouth despite brushing his teeth and he needs some way to wash it out.

Castiel sighs behind him. “It is 9:30 in the morning. Are you serious?”

Well, now Dean’s in a bad mood too. He slams the whiskey bottle back on the counter and turns around, snapping, “Well, I need  _ some _ way to wash the bad taste out of my mouth, don’t I?”

Castiel stands up, mouth twisting with annoyance. “You could try to eat breakfast.”

“I don’t exactly see any food lying around,” Dean responds, looking around mockingly.

“What, do you just expect me to make you food whenever you feel like it? Do you not understand that I have a life of my own that doesn’t entirely revolve around you?”

“I’m not saying you have to make me food!” Dean snaps. “I’m saying there’s nothing available except for my alcohol and I’ll take anything in my system over nothing.”

“Why don’t you go shopping ever? Or order shipments?” Castiel’s tone rises and Dean matches that with a yell of his own.

“Because I normally have the Roadhouse!”

“Why don’t you go there now?”

“Because I apparently need to see the president!” Dean doesn’t know why he’s so angry or why they’re yelling at each other but it feels good to yell. He whips the glass of whiskey at the wall and it shatters. Castiel flinches but doesn’t break the angry glare he’s shooting at him. “And now I don’t have a glass!”

“You just broke it!”

“Well how else am I going to get her taste out of my mouth?” Dean screams back. “This wasn’t my choice, Cas!”

“I know it wasn’t!” his escort roars. “I’m not mad at  _ you _ for this! This a total pervasion of human rights on Naomi’s part!”

Something in Dean snaps and he slumps. “I don’t have a choice at all.”

“You do have a choice!” Cas yells back, his voice so gravelly it’s a wonder it doesn’t scrape his throat on the way up. He takes an angry step towards Dean. “If you weren’t so busy feeling sorry for yourself—”

“You’re a citizen here, Cas!” Dean yells, matching his step with one of his own. “You have no idea—”

“I have  _ every _ idea!” Cas shoves his finger into Dean’s chest. Dean stumbles back before surging forward, knocking his hand away. His palms hit Castiel’s shoulders in a hard shove.

“What are you going to do, Dean?” Cas challenges, a dangerous glint in his eyes that tells the Victor that there’s something broken here he doesn’t think can ever be fixed. “Are you going to hit me? Do you think it’ll make you feel better?”

Dean shoves him again.

“Will beating up your escort excuse your sins? Will your memories forgive you if you break my nose?”

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“Do you think your nightmares will stop if you punch me?”

“I said  _ shut up _ !”

“Are you your violent father, Dean Winchester? Are you going to hit me if I make you angry enough?”

“SHUT—UP!”

“Make me!”

Dean does. He grabs the escort’s tie and yanks him close, lips hitting lips and teeth hitting teeth. Cas responds immediately, tongue swiping inside his mouth with a ferocity Dean had never expected, tilting his head for a better angle. For someone he’d taken to be a prude, Cas certainly kisses like an expert.

One of his legs moves between Dean’s, pushing him back so that his back hits the wall. One hand brushes the scar on Dean’s arm, sending a tingling sensation through the whole limb. Dean stiffens but Cas doesn’t hesitate to press forward with more force, tilting his head for a better angle.

Dean leans back when he gets lightheaded and takes in a shuddering breath, unable to open his eyes for a hot second.  _ Charlie said it’s okay, _ he reminds himself. Deja vu hits him and he cringes. This is  _ nothing _ like The Incident.

“What was that?”

Dean opens his eyes. Castiel looks utterly disheveled, hair even messier than usual and lips swollen. “I think I’m bisexual,” he responds weakly.

He’s rewarded with a rare smile, one that makes him smile back without even thinking about it. “Okay,” Castiel responds easily. For a moment awkwardness fills the air until he cheekily asks, “Did that get her taste out of your mouth?”

Surprised laughter bursts from Dean’s chest and he nods. His mouth is no longer tacky, but instead has a faint taste of mint. He realizes that he’s still holding Cas’ coat and lets go, looking down awkwardly.

Cas takes a step back and shuffles his feet. “I think if circumstances were different, now would be the time I tell you I don’t want you to hurt me.  _ Again. _ ” He offers Dean a half-smile that sets off at least a hundred butterflies in his stomach.

Dean can’t help his snort. “I don’t think that’s entirely in my hands.” He doesn’t add that maybe he won’t be the one doing the hurting; Cas has always been a bit of a question. A bit of a poison that has a claim to both sides of the invisible, inevitable conflict.

“That is true,” Cas concedes. “I think I can handle a little bit of hurt.”

He leans forward again. Dean drinks his poison eagerly.


	11. Rak Shasa

_ now _

“How are you today, Dean?”

Dean looks at Naomi, who’s crossed her legs at the ankles and is sitting as prim as can be behind her large mahogany desk. Does she know about him and Castiel yet? Surely she’ll know soon enough if not. Has Dean accepted another person into his life she’ll use as leverage?

For the first time, a little bit of guilt worms into his stomach at the thought of what he’d done that morning. Another worm of anxiety follows it, worrying that somehow John will find out.

“I’m fine,” he replies, tone equally as bland as her own. “I trust you’re fine also, considering, well…” He looks around, one eyebrow raised with slight contempt at the white walls, the spare couches, the bowls of food left out for mere decoration, and the vase filled with a single white rose sitting on the corner of her dark wood desk. “Your exceptionally lavish surroundings.”

Naomi smiles, exposing unnaturally white fangs. “I wouldn’t exactly call them lavish—”

“I would,” Dean interrupts, relishing her slight blanch. His expression doesn’t twitch; one eyebrow is still raised in an outright dare. He feels so much less hopeless when he’s staring Naomi right in the face; she may be intimidating but she is only a woman—flesh and bone, something that can bleed (which means it can die). When she displays her omnipotency or omnisciency, she seems unbeatable. That’s undoubtedly the reason she hides behind her technology and screens.

Dean doesn’t think she’ll hurt him now, either. Organizing the pain and deaths of people you’ve never met is hard enough (or should be hard enough; the jury is still out on whether she’s a psychopath) let alone someone right in front of you. Is she really so ruthless she’ll look Dean right in the eyes, face to face, and torture him?

No. Dean can read her like a book. She’s never competed in the Games; she doesn’t know what it’s like to get her hands dirty like that. She doesn’t like to get dirty at all, judging by her office and the rest of the Capitol.

He briefly indulges in a fantasy of Naomi in the Games, fretting over how she’ll do her hair and what will happen to her nails if she bashes someone’s brains in with a rock. Perhaps she’d order her opponents not to attack her because she’s the president.

Of course, they’d do it anyway and they’d leave her in a heap on the ground, blood seeping into the red hair that would hide its stain.

“I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Naomi says, her lips twisting up into a thin smile. She sucks in a breath to continue.

“I suppose we will,” Dean interrupts coolly, not giving away that he knows exactly what he’s doing. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling as she deflates.

He may or may not be taking a page out of Jo’s book. She never enjoyed it when Anna ate at their table, mostly because Anna never liked her either, and whenever the girls interacted Jo was good at unsettling the redhead simply by acting like an uncouth, brash Victor’s child with underdeveloped social skills.

Dean is just carrying on her legacy by unsettling another redhead.

“Now, Dean, I’m afraid you’re going to have to pardon my bluntness.” She bares her teeth again. Before he can cut her off again, she says, “I simply must ask you a few questions to assure myself of your, ah… loyalty.”

The blood in Dean’s veins turn to ice. Somehow he manages to say, “Mmm?”

“I must ask you to tell me what your involvement with the rebellion is.”

If Naomi can read minds, she’d surely hear every curse word she knows running around Dean’s mind plus a few more creative curses native only to District 5. His face, however, is impassive.

“Well, Dean?” she prompts, smiling a little cruelly. “Don’t tell me cat’s got your tongue now when you were so eager to speak just moments ago.”

If looks could kill, she’d be dead a thousand times over. Unfortunately, they can’t, so Naomi remains upright and intact, smiling her mean little smile that crinkles the skin around her eyes and exposes deep lines around her mouth unnoticeable when her face is solemn.

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. His mind is frantically buzzing, trying to figure out how much she must know and what he should and shouldn’t know. She definitely knows about the rebellion in its most basic aspects and at least some of its sympathetics in District 5, if not every district. But does she know about the Peacekeepers? And how much has John hidden from Dean that she knows?

This has got to be a test. She’s got surveillance measures superior to anyone’s wildest dreams. She really is testing his loyalty—or, rather, his complacency or fear. She definitely wouldn’t believe that he’s actually loyal to him after every effort she’s taken to silence his voice and keep him oppressed. She also wouldn’t believe that Dean doesn’t know anything about it.

“My father is involved,” he finally gets out, sounding strangled. “So is Ellen Harvelle. I’m sure they’re not the only ones involved, but they’re the only names I know.” His tone is more aggressive as he asks, “What, do you really expect me to believe that you don’t know?”

“I’m sure there are some things you know that I don’t as well as things I know that you don’t.” Naomi smiles a bit and tilts her head. “Why don’t we help each other out?”

“I don’t believe that.” Dean shakes his head. “I really don’t believe there’s anything my father’s doing you don’t know that I do.”

“Hard as this may be to believe, Dean, but your father and his associates are a bit paranoid.” Naomi cocks her head. “Unlike you, when they find a camera or bug in their room, they do more than stare directly into it. However,” she leans forward, “you’re correct when you say there’s not much your father does that I don’t know about. What I’m more interested in is your mother.”

The words feel like a punch to the chest, but Dean keeps his dignity by not flinching or drawing a ragged breath. He turns to stone. “ _ What _ ?”

“What do you remember about the day she died, exactly?”

The light flickered in the hall. John was sleeping in the chair and Sam’s room burst into flames. There was a white room—no. Dean shakes himself. That was only a dream. Or was it? What of the dream is real and what’s not? He was so young his memories might have blurred with dreams. That’s a thing that happens, right?

“I was four years old,” Dean says slowly. “I remember the Peacekeepers. I remember that you’re the reason she’s dead.”

“Oh, Dean.” Naomi sticks out her bottom lip and half-reaches for him by extending her hand on her desk. “I’m not the reason she’s dead.”

Reeling, Dean can only look at her.

“Your mother’s poor decisions are the reason she’s dead,” Naomi continues. “Her association with the resistance is why she’s dead. You understand I had to send a message to the resistance, correct?”

Dean has to look up at the ceiling to prevent tears from spilling out of his eyes. They burn anyway. “But why—” his voice cracks— “why  _ my _ mom?” And then he’s a child again, both nineteen and four at the same time, flaming hair in a white room, pain coursing through his hand. He jolts in the chair and is only nineteen again.

“Your mother had some information that I needed,” Naomi answers, peering at him intently. “It was never my intention to tear apart a family, but sacrifices must be made at times.”

Someone behind Dean shouts something. He whirls around but nobody’s behind him.

“What do you remember?” Naomi hisses, her face alight with some terrible power. “What exactly?”

_ “Where is it?” _

“They wanted her to give them information,” Dean says slowly, staring at the desk. He’s afraid that if he looks at Naomi, her hair will be longer and lighter and she’ll be standing next to his mother.

_ “Where is the virus?” _

“A—” Dean stutters. “A virus. She had a virus?”

“Yes,” Naomi hisses. “One that could wipe out our population in weeks.”

“Why?”

“That’s why she had to die, Dean. One death over thousands.”

“No,” Dean counters. “One death plus twenty-three in the arena for every year she’s been dead—fifteen years.”

“Fifteen times twenty-three is three hundred and forty-five,” Naomi responds promptly. “Don’t worry. I’ve kept track. But three hundred and forty-five people is roughly a two  _ thousandth _ of the Capitol’s population, not to mention the contamination that would inevitably spread to the Districts and wipe out the citizens there. Unfortunately, I decided that roughly four million lives were more important than three hundred and forty-six.”

“You could have taken the virus and destroyed it!” Dean argues, though he knows in his heart that, had Naomi gotten her hands on the virus, it would be just another instrument of control.

“I tried to do that. I really, really tried, Dean. I didn’t plan on killing your mother, did you know that?”

Dean glares at the desk.

“She wouldn’t tell me where she put it and threatened that after this she would release it. I had to stop her. I had to stop a  _ terrorist _ .”

“My mother wasn’t a terrorist,” he snaps. “ _ You’re _ the terrorist. You run around deciding who should die and who shouldn’t and punish us all for crimes our grandparents committed.”

“Sacrifices have to be made,” she reiterates.

“Not these sacrifices.” He shakes his head. “Not this many.”

“Your loyalty to your mother is impressive,” Naomi admits. “It’s a shame she didn’t have the same loyalty to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Interrogation got a bit, ah…” She purses her lips. “Messy.”

_ The needle enters his skin and burning follows instantly. Dean whimpers, calling out for his mother, who is on her knees behind the glass separating them. _

_ “I’m so sorry, Dean!” Mary sobs. “I can’t tell them. I just can’t!” _

“She let you hurt me,” Dean whispers.

“The resistance was more important to her than her own son.” Naomi stands up and walks around the desk to set a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I see, though you may not remember exactly, that day has influenced you. You would rather your brother be safe than lead a rebellion against me. I appreciate that, Dean.”

Dean looks up at her, hating her more than he could ever say. Was his mother truly as ruthless as John is? Was she really willing for her eldest son to suffer just for a resistance doomed to fail? Why couldn’t Naomi have kept this a secret from him?

_ “You have one last chance, Mary.” _

_ Sam lets out a shrill wail in his basket. Dean twitches weakly, aching to help his baby brother, but he’s in so much pain he can’t even unclench his jaw, let alone move to help. _

_ There are muted adult voices muffled by his own panting breaths and sniffles. The sound of a door opening, like an electronic hiss, attracts his attention. He stiffens, preparing for more mean men to come and hurt him, and hands do grip his body, but they bring him close to another body and hug him. It feels like she’s crushing him to death. _

_ He can feel his mother’s tears dropping onto his cheeks and rolling down them as if they’re his own as she mumbles apologies. Then, quieter, into his hair, she breathes, “It won’t die with us. John knows what to do with Sammy. He’s got—” _

_ “This is your last warning, Mary.” _

_ “Dean and I both have it!” she bursts out, making Dean flinch. Fresh tears leak from her eyes. “In our bloodstream. It’s not lethal to us because Lilith watered it down but—” _

_ “What about your other son?” _

_ “He’s an infant! It really could kill him, even if it is watered down; I would never do that to him!” _

_ “Drain her, then him.” _

_ “I’m so sorry, Dean!” _

“It’s in me?” Dean asks, confused, as a tear falls from his eye down to his chin where it hangs, tickling for a moment before he wipes it away.

“It’s not,” Naomi replies, taking her hand away from his arm. “Mary lied to us. We tried both your and her bloodstream and there was no contamination whatsoever. But if the threat of death to one of her children wouldn’t shake her, what could? We killed her.”

“ _ You _ killed her.”

Naomi sighs, as if worn down by his insistence on applying blame, and in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability rubs her forehead with slim fingers. Dean fantasizes about taking one of the pens on her desk and shoving it right into her jugular.

“I’m leaving,” he hisses, furiously wiping away the tears wetting his cheeks and hating the way his voice trembles as he struggles to make his tone angry and righteous and not confused and hurt. “I’m going back to my home to my little brother and you can’t stop me. I don’t care if you wanted to whore me out any more—”

“You and I both know that was nothing personal.” She waves her hand in a clear dismissal that stings as much of a slap. “Fine, go. I had hoped for more yield in your character, but you are as frustratingly brittle as your parents.”

Dean shakes his head and slams the door on his way out, which means he doesn’t hear her whispered words behind him. He probably should have asked her to repeat what she said.

* * *

There isn’t a hint of sunrise in the sky but someone is banging on Sam’s front door. He stumbles and nearly falls down the stairs because of his oversized pajama pants (he’s pretty sure they’re hand-me-downs from Dean). Rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn, Sam opens the door to three identical scowls.

Though the triplets might not share much in the way of looks, when they’re angry it’s unmistakable they’re siblings. The matching uniforms Ketch and Mitch wear don’t help, and Bevelle wears MOL’s colors, everything washed out in the darkness.

“He’s not here,” Sam says slowly but he’s pretty sure they already knew that. Dean missed the past two days of school, after all. They had to have at least been expecting it. He meets Mitch’s eyes and blushes, trying to flatten his hair with one hand. He hadn’t thought about his appearance before opening the door.

Ketch swears and spits on the ground. Then he says some unsavory things about Dean that would normally make Sam angry, but he can’t help but agree with him. His patience with his older brother has been wearing thin for years, but this back-and-forth between the Capitol just might be the final straw.

Mitch shakes his head. Bevelle’s frown deepens and she asks Sam, “Why?”

Sam merely shrugs. “Who knows why Dean does anything?” The way his brother acts sometimes, he’s been sentenced to death and is fleeing his executioners. Ruby says it’s PTSD and he can’t help it. Sam doesn’t understand; Dean is safe and he knows it. So why does he still act so haunted?

“It’s States,” Mitch gripes as if the words will summon Dean from whatever luxurious hole he’d crawled into in the Capitol. “And his senior year. You’d think he’d care a little more.”

The rebel in Sam wants to say that there are things more important than States and sports—like Dean. Like  _ sleep _ . He stays silent and shrugs again. Today is going to be hell; he’s never going to be able to get back to sleep and he was up late reading last night. Maybe if he gets back to bed right now he’ll be able to resume sleeping without a hassle.

“Your brother sucks, Sam,” Bevelle remarks, bitterness clouding her tone, and Sam nods.

“I know.” He’s being petty and irritated because they woke him up so early, he knows, but  _ knowing _ why he feels a way doesn’t stop the emotions from being there. “Good luck at your competition.”

Mitch shakes his head again, eyes thrown up to the fathomless heavens, and they turn on their heels and disappear in the darkness in the direction of the school.

Sam shuts and locks the door.

A husky growl from the top of the stairs makes him jump. “Who was that?”

“You’re home?” Sam asks with more than a little disbelief. When no reply is forthcoming, he shrugs even though he doubts his father sees it in the darkness. “It was no one. Just Dean’s teammates looking for him.”

“He’s not back?”

Sam bristles at the condemnation in John’s tone. Like John is any better. He’s had a habit of disappearing for  _ years _ ; much longer than Dean’s. Maybe it’s a side effect of being a Victor.

“It’s just as well,” their father continues in a tone that warns Sam he is not going to like what comes next. “With all the time he spends up there, he’s probably corrupted.”

Sam opens his mouth but he hears John shuffling and then his door snaps shut. He’s one to seek out an argument, unlike Dean but like John. Unfortunately, the opportunity is long gone and it’s asscrack-of-dawn-o’clock, so he’ll forego the fighting just this once. Sam closes his mouth and simmers with indignation as he stomps up the stairs but doesn’t slam his door for fear that that might be crossing the line of petty anger.

As he’d suspected, he doesn’t sleep well. He dozes fitfully, tossing and turning as he often does without another solid body next to him, warming the bed and occasionally pinning him down with an outstretched arm. As his room lightens with dawn, Sam can admit to himself that he misses Dean. Not just because he’s at the Capitol now, but because he lives houses away, sleeps in a different bed, and doesn’t have time for him. He’s  _ different _ .

A wry smile twists his lips as he considers the possibility that the Capitol figured out how to clone people and sent a fake Dean back after the Games. However ludicrous that would be, it would lessen the tender, bruised feeling in Sam’s stomach he feels whenever he wakes up to a cold bed.

His alarm clock goes off and Sam considers skipping. His usual friends won’t be at lunch, he’s tired, and there are no tests today as far as he knows. Those are just excuses, though, and Sam’s always been driven to prove himself academically, both to expand his future career choices and because that was the one area Dean never excelled in.

Besides, to stay home would probably increase the time he’d have to spend with John.

With a groan, he heaves himself up. Yes, today will suck. He’ll get through it.

After all, Dean survived the arena.

Sam had been right when he’d predicted school was going to suck. It sucked badly. He fell asleep during a pop quiz in history. Amy was absent, which meant he had to eat lunch alone. Except he’d forgotten his lunch at home.

During his last block, two Road kids in the back completely ignore the teacher, whispering with their heads together. The Town kids in the class mostly ignore them. The other Road kids do, too, because the two Road kids in question are Ace Frehley and Kris Warren, two gamblers notorious for hiding in shaded alleyways and dealing drugs to Peacekeepers. Unless you’re lucky enough for them to like you (and they don’t like anyone) getting in their way isn’t a good idea.

Still, them plotting sets everyone’s teeth on edge. Especially the teacher, Mrs. Findeli, who eyes them warily the whole time she lectures.

“Did you hear?” a girl on Sam’s right asks her friend. “Warren found a package on his doorstep a few days ago and it was a jewel flower.”

Sam’s eyes narrow.

“Seriously?” her friend replies.

A boy behind them leans forward and hisses, “I heard he traded it to the Peacekeepers for seven whole sacks of tesserae grain.”

“Is that why they’re whispering?” the friend asks.

“Must be,” the first girl shrugs. “Maybe they’re brainstorming who it was.”

“Who what was?”

“The person that left the flower, of course.” Her friend scoffs. “It didn’t just appear.”

“I bet it was Winchester,” the boy murmurs, adopting a slightly awestruck tone. “That’s something he would do. He’s so cool.”

“ _ I _ bet it was a Peacekeeper,” the friend argues. “To see what they’d do with it. Or who their Peacekeeper contacts are. I bet they disappear in days.”

The first girl coughs, staring at Sam, who blushes as he realizes his hasty attempts at pretending not to listen didn’t work very well. The three students look back at their notes.

Sam leans back in his chair, setting his pencil down.

That’s interesting.

The bell rings five minutes later. Frehley and Warren are out the door first. Sam shoves his notes into his backpack without looking and speedwalks out of the building, eager to go home and sleep.

Unfortunately, it would seem that luck isn’t on his side. Ruby’s sitting on the living room couch when he gets home. She doesn’t look up when he enters, too engrossed in her task of… Sam frowns. Is she sharpening her discipline stick? His fingers tingle unpleasantly at the thought of her using it to stab someone rather than ward off potential criminals.

Sam knows that he’s supposed to stay away from rebel meetings whenever they’re happening in his house. He knows that whoever’s kept out of it is meant to keep him from eavesdropping.

Cautious steps lead him around the coach, waiting for Ruby to inevitably tell him to keep away from the door. She remains silent, even when he presses his ear to the door in time to hear a gruff voice say something about a biological weapon causing a stalemate. Whatever that means.

Sam bites his lip as he looks back at the blonde girl on his couch. “You’re not going to stop me from listening?”

She doesn’t raise her eyes from her task as she replies, “No one is too young to hate Naomi.” The flakes she’s whittling off are, Sam notices, landing more often on the floor than in the trash can by her feet. Since she won’t bother to clean up the mess, the responsibility will surely fall to him.

Sam scowls and presses his ear back to the door. The sound of another slamming has him flinching. He whirls, heart racing as someone is surely coming to tell him off, but the newcomer is Dean, storming into the house with a thunderous expression on his face and ankle clicking with every step.

Ruby stands up but Dean sweeps past her with a muttered, “Don’t even try it.”

“Dean,” Sam greets, standing and moving to hug his brother. Dean ignores him and enters the meeting, slamming the door shut behind him.

Hurt, Sam moves to open the door, but Ruby stops him and places a finger over her lips.

“What are you doing here?”

“Tell me about the virus,” Dean snaps.

“How did you—” John starts but an annoyed voice cuts him off.

“You need to get out. You weren’t invited. You’re not involved; you’ve made that perfectly clear.”

“Shut the hell up,” Dean retorts. “I’m your perfect propaganda piece. You need me for district support. Don’t try to deny it. But I’m not going to help you if you don’t tell me what you know about the virus this second.”

Eyes wide, Sam looks at Ruby, who for once looks as lost as him. No one ever anticipated Dean choosing to support the rebellion; he’s been against it from the start.

Mr. Wallace asks, “What do  _ you _ know about it?”

“It’s what got my mother killed,” Dean replies. “Tell me,  _ Dad, _ did you ever remember that I was there during the interrogation?”

“Ruby,” a female voice calls. The Peacekeeper rips the door open.

John eyes her with annoyance. “I told you to tell him to go upstairs.”

“He’s as involved as the rest of us,” she replies, shrugging, and moves to sit in the chair next to Meg, leaving Sam in the doorway. Dean is now the only person standing in the room, glaring ferociously at anyone that dares to meet his eyes.

“The virus was your move against the Capitol, wasn’t it?” Dean asks rhetorically, shaking his head. “Wiping out the whole population as well as some of our own in order to get to Naomi. Smart.”

“We called it Demon’s Blood,” Ellen says gruffly, her arms crossed. No one’s dared to sit in the chairs on either of her sides. “And sometimes people have to make sacrifices.” Her tone is biting and she glares at John. Sam has no doubt she’s thinking about Jo.

“So your plan was to sink the ship to kill the captain,” Dean realizes.

Mr. Wallace argues, “A vaccine was in production—”

Dean waves his hand at him. “Irrelevant. Tell me about it.”

“Produced in District 13—”

Dean and Sam make identical noises of confusion.

“It’s not as destroyed as they’d like you to think,” John elaborates. “The Capitol drove them underground, where they’ve been rebuilding and preparing for war for years. There hasn’t been a second attack against them because of their stockpile of nuclear weapons. Bombs, but on a much larger scale than the ones occasionally used in the Games.”

Says Bobby, “Just after Sam was born, Mary and a friend met with Lilith in secret. They were to sneak a highly infectious virus into the Capitol, preferably first contact with Naomi. Somehow Naomi found out. Mary hid the virus before the Peacekeepers took her away.”

Ellen adds, “Unfortunately, we don’t know where she hid it. We’ve been pretending to have it for years to keep Naomi off our asses, but one of our inside sources says she’s growing tired of waiting. Her plan, as it seems, is to round us all up and bomb us. The nuclear technology would essentially destroy the virus, especially because nobody would be around to transmit it.”

“Something that uncontrollable isn’t a good revolution technique,” Dean says, shaking his head.

John leans back in his chair. “I never approved of her plan, but Mary was insistent. We never…” He coughs and, for the first time in his young life, Sam sees a vulnerable look on his father’s face. “We never resolved that fight before she died.”

“What you need is public support,” Sam’s older brother, who is the smartest person ever, in his opinion, continues. “There are thousands of citizens for every Peacekeeper and Capitol citizen. District 9 was only the beginning. You think people are happy about their children dying? Their brothers and sisters? Their friends?” His voice catches on that word.

“Resentment has been brewing for years,” Ellen says. Sam knows it’s the first time she’s spoken to Dean with a civil tone in three years.

“All it takes is a spark for a flame,” Azazel speaks up, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, examining Dean like he’s never seen him clearly before.

“So I’ll be your mouthpiece,” the elder brother says bitterly.

“Or our assassin,” Ellen interjects. “You go to the Capitol so often, you’re bound to get close to Naomi.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” Dean says quickly. “On one condition. Get Sam safe. Get him to District 13’s bunker, get him out of the range of any bombs or viruses or anything that could possibly happen.”

Sam’s mouth falls open. “ _ What? _ Dean!”

“If anything happens to him, the deal’s off the table,” Dean continues.

John starts, “Don’t you think, as his father, I’m the most suited to protect my son?”

“Yeah, like you protected your older son?” Dean snarls back. John visibly reels. “You threw me to the wolves,  _ Dad _ , and I’m stopping you from using Sam the same way when it’s convenient for you.”

“We can arrange that,” Crowley says, putting a hand on John’s shoulder to keep him from standing up. “Safe passage.”

“And it has to happen  _ now _ . She’s always watching. She knows by now.”

“If she knows, then she knows we don’t have the virus!” a skittish man squeals. He flinches and looks up as if he’s waiting for the roof to cave in at any minute.

“But we do,” Dean says slowly. “Azazel knows where it is.”

Everyone turns to look at the yellow-eyed Peacekeeper, who holds up his hands with a laugh. “All right, you got me,” he drawls. “I figured, as long as she thinks we have it, and as long as we don’t ever mean to use it, but merely  _ have _ it, I’d keep my mouth shut. What I’m more curious about, Dean-o, is how  _ you _ figured it out.”

“My mother told me,” Dean replies stiffly, holding himself like he’s going to shatter any minute. “Just before Naomi had her killed.”

The room erupts into shouts demanding the location of the virus immediately. Dean or Azazel could have said it twenty times and it would never be heard over the commotion.

Without thinking, Sam flicks the room’s light twice. The talking dies out and everyone turns to face him. He blushes and shrugs, gesturing to Dean.

“I know where some of it is,” he murmurs, frowning. “It was highly irresponsible of my mother, by the way. Completely in character for her, though, considering she wouldn’t give up the location as Naomi and her goons  _ tortured _ me, and then lied to her and said we both had it in our bloodstreams. She sentenced us both to death without blinking.”

“Mom wouldn’t,” Sam whispers.

“Mary wouldn’t,” John whispers at the same time.

“All to win the war,” Dean snaps. “Look at us pawns.”

Sam has to disagree with that statement; Dean is the queen of this chess scenario. He can go anywhere, do anything, kill anyone, and everyone else just has to deal with it.

“The rest of it went up in the house fire,” Azazel puts in. “The virus was in liquid form at that point and had to be highly concentrated to be deadly. Mary injected three drops of it into her son; just enough that its presence in his bloodstream could be detected and the genetic coding replicated, but not enough to kill him or anyone else that came into contact with his bodily fluids in the future.”

Sam thinks about all the blood he’s had to clean off of Dean. He hadn’t known all that time that he was playing with death.

“Of course, Naomi’s been holding his safety over my head for the past three years,” Dean says, which doesn’t make any sense. “She had no way of knowing that if she killed Sam, she’d be throwing away her chance at utilizing the virus.”

“I did say Sam would play a pivotal role in the revolution,” Azazel says, amusement bleeding out of his pores.

Realization hits him like a truck. Sam has to sit down. The loud voices in the room grow quieter as the world narrows down to himself and the floor he’s sitting on.

He is… he has… his blood? Dean said…  _ three years _ … why would Mom…?

Hands on his shoulders shake him and Sam looks at the person blankly. Dean’s face swims in his vision, urging him to do something, but words still sound muffled like he’s underwater.

Sam blinks.

“—tomorrow, do you hear me? Just until tomorrow. Then you’ll be safe—”

“What?”

“You need to stay inside and away from all windows until tomorrow night. Crowley’s arranging transportation for you out of here, I think on an airplane. Won’t that be fun?”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“Funky town, Sammy.” Dean stands up, a small, sad smile on his face, and takes a step back.

Sam scrambles to his feet. Grasping at straws, he tries to think of a reason to convince his brother to stay. But if Naomi truly has so much power over him— “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re safe.”

“It matters to  _ me _ ! Why won’t you talk to me?” Sam cries. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on? I’m almost as old as you were when you fought in the Games, so why can’t I make my own decisions? I  _ want _ to rebel! I  _ want _ to be like you and Dad! I want to avenge Mom!”

“You’re both so determined to die for this thing, but I’m going to be the one to bury you!” Dean explodes. “Sam, you’re a  _ kid _ !”

“So were you when you fought! So is every tribute! This is the kids’ fight—”

“This is the parents’ fight,” Dean counters. “We’re fighting so you don’t have to.”


End file.
